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

by Beth Brower

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, events, business establishments, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 by Beth Brower

  www.bethbrower.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

  Rhysdon Press

  P.O. Box 171 Orem, Ut. 84059

  Thank you for buying a legal and authorized edition of this book.

  Published by Rhysdon Press

  The Ruby Prince : Book Two of Imirillia / Beth Brower. p. cm. 3. Fantasy. 2. Adventure and Adventurers —Fiction. I. Title.

  Cover by Kevin Cantrell Design

  www.kevincantrell.com

  The Books of Imirillia

  The Queen’s Gambit

  The Ruby Prince

  &

  The Wanderer’s Mark

  {Coming July 2016}

  For Kimberly, who was the first to travel

  my imaginary lands.

  Zarbadast is for you.

  Table of Contents

  Front Matter

  Map

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Preview of The Wanderer’s Mark: Book Three of Imirillia

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Books by Beth Brower

  The world moves and we with it; and I see now what I did not before I was taken from my place, and cast upon a stranger’s shore.

  —The Third Scroll

  Chapter One

  Eleanor watched as Prince Basaal of Imirillia steeled himself for the interview ahead. “The man who is about to enter this tent is my father’s war leader,” he said. “He’s his own kind of devil, not to be dealt with lightly. I apologize in advance, but I do what I must to keep my head intact—and yours.” The prince relaxed his face into a blank mask and called out, “Drakta!”

  A man with bird-like eyes and a menacing look entered. Eleanor had seen him before. He was among those who had brought her back to the Imirillian camp. He had threatened her and had spoken low, degrading insults. She’d retaliated as best she could. Now, his very presence made Eleanor ill.

  “The scouts are not yet returned from the mountain pass, Your Grace,” he growled.

  The prince gave a curt nod. “I heard your men almost enjoyed themselves with my queen,” Basaal said, offering him a drink and maintaining a steady expression.

  Drakta accepted the cup with narrowed eyes. “She’s a bit wilder than you would imagine a woman of her kind would be,” he answered Basaal gruffly, emptying the cup in one draught.

  “Yes, so I gathered myself,” Basaal said, rubbing his chin, and Drakta smirked at Eleanor.

  Basaal sauntered over to a chair, next to where she sat, and slumped into it. “I want you to make sure,” he explained, “that all the men know she is not to be—uh—touched in any way. She remains under my protection at all times.”

  Drakta looked suspiciously at the two of them.

  “You see,” Basaal continued, not looking in Eleanor’s direction. “I intend to make her my first wife.”

  Eleanor jerked her head up. “What!” she demanded. She was on her feet in an instant.

  “Oh,” Basaal looked at her with disinterest. “I forgot you’re untied. Drakta? Will you do the honors?”

  Drakta reached towards Eleanor, and she panicked, flinging her hands out, her nails catching him along the jaw, and a thin line of red appeared. Grunting, Drakta grabbed Eleanor’s arm and twisted it behind her. Eleanor’s knees gave way under the pain of it.

  Turning towards the prince, Drakta muttered something with a harsh laugh.

  Basaal’s response came evenly. “Yes, I know what I’m doing,” Basaal said as he stood up and walked back to the refreshments table, lifting a few grapes in his fingers. “If you think she’s beautiful,” he said with an expression of pure greed, “wait until you see her country.”

  Eleanor, breathing hard, lifted her head and stared at Basaal. It was as if two separate people existed in his mind. Where Wil had felt like such a friend, this prince seemed a different creature entirely, someone who would never help her escape. Eleanor tried to pull away from Drakta’s grip, but his fingers pushed into the skin of her arms before, with a smirk, he forced her back into the chair.

  “I’m not a beast! Don’t touch me!” she said as she flung herself against the back of the chair and kicked him as hard as she could.

  Eleanor’s head jerked to the side as Drakta hit her face, a wave of force she had never before experienced. She blinked, and the tears welled up. Opening her eyes, she could see black and gray with small lights moving about in strange patterns. The shadow of Drakta’s fist fell across her face, but in two quick steps, Basaal had reached Drakta’s side, grabbing his wrist and twisting it with such ferocity that the man dropped to the floor. Basaal was over him in an instant, pinning Drakta’s neck down, a murderous expression in his eyes.

  “I meant what I said, Drakta.” The prince was breathing hard, his words so sharp that they seemed to slice the air. Drakta winced. “She is under my protection,” Basaal continued. “And you are never to touch her again—ever. Not for any reason, or I’ll see you hanged for it. Now, get out until the scouts return from the pass.”

  Basaal pulled Drakta roughly to his feet and sent him sprawling towards the tent door. Eleanor had never seen such fury as she saw now, in Drakta’s face, when he looked back at Basaal before leaving. Seething, Basaal turned towards Eleanor, but he couldn’t bring himself to lift his eyes to hers. His face was tight as he placed the gag in her mouth again. When he moved behind her, carefully binding her hands, he said, “I’m sorry.” Eleanor couldn’t tell if his voice was breaking from anger or some other emotion.

  But to Eleanor, he did not sound sorry. The ringing in her head wouldn’t stop. She wiped her nose against her shoulder, for both of Eleanor’s eyes were still watering from the blow, and from the humiliation of the entire scene. Why would he think she could ever trust him again? And, why would Aedon ever ask her to? She felt nothing but disgust for this prince.

  The anger Eleanor had felt, when she had seen Common Field; the anger that she had felt, when Marion had abandoned them; and the anger and hurt she had experienced, when Basaal had revealed himself as traitor—these had all converged, strong and fierce, with a rage like none she had ever experienced. It rose and surged and mounted within her, and she struggled and yelled through the gag.

  Finally, after a wave of tears burned down her cheeks, Eleanor gave up struggling. Basaal retreated to the small writing table, covered in reports, sat down, and did not look at her.

  He worked f
or over an hour, in silence, with Eleanor’s glare burning into the top of his head. He only shifted his attention when shouts rang through the camp, followed by the sounds of horses.

  “Don’t make yourself a nuisance,” Basaal said, gathering the papers before him as he spoke. “You don’t want to catch the attention of these men.” He sounded distant and annoyed, but his temper had abated, and the last look that he gave her, before the tent flap was pulled open, seemed to imply a form of encouragement. Eleanor glared at him in return.

  A dozen men entered. They looked angry and restless; their war-set eyes, scathing. Eleanor’s head was bowed, but her eyes were lifted up, challenging them. Only one, the young man who had ridden out to meet Eleanor on the battlefield, gave her any acknowledgment. He appeared almost apologetic. Eleanor looked away. Hate and anger she could combat, but not pity.

  Basaal sat in the chair next to hers as his men formed a semicircle before him. “What is the report?” Basaal asked, quick and authoritative.

  The handsome young man stepped forward. “The entire pass has collapsed in on itself. We won’t know until the morning, but, as of tonight, there appears to be no way in or out.”

  “How exactly did this happen?” Prince Basaal asked.

  “They must have something, some formula, some explosive, powerful enough to have brought the mountain down.”

  “Yes.” Basaal was impatient. “You’ve successfully repeated yourself. How did they have time to bring down the mountain? Were we not marching into the pass?”

  “We were,” the young man continued. “And then, they sent out a small company with a white flag. It was past their allotted time for surrendering,” he explained, “so we shot them down with arrows. Another company came and suffered the same fate.”

  Eleanor closed her eyes as he spoke, seeing the men—her men—falling under the Imirillian fire as they rode out to stall the army and give her more time. She saw again the sunlight, glinting off their helmets, their weapons, and the horses’ bridles, as they rode out to their deaths.

  Eleanor remembered the moment when she had the realization, when the battlefield had been laid out before her like a chessboard and she had seen that if she rode out on Basaal’s white horse in her white dress like Seraagh, alone, the Imirillians might be swayed, they might stall, and her men would have enough time to reset the damaged lines and bring down the mountain. She thought about how Hegleh had responded, running so fast Eleanor could barely breathe.

  “And then she came riding straight at us—” the young man was saying, still telling his story. Eleanor shook herself out of her own thoughts and glanced at Basaal, who sat stone faced and cold. “—blazing white like Seraagh herself. We stopped, and I gave the command to not shoot. She called out, demanding to speak with you, the prince. So, I came forward in your place, and she asked if we could strike a deal: a surrender.”

  “And none of you questioned this at all?” Basaal asked.

  “I thought we should have just killed her and continued our march,” an older officer said, appraising Eleanor with distain. “Annan, in your absence, decided otherwise.”

  Basaal stood and, once again, walked to his refreshments table. “I’ve heard enough for tonight,” he said. “We won’t know until daylight, regardless, if the mountain is truly impassable. Go. We will meet again come morning.”

  Drakta balked. “You are just going to leave off—”

  “Enough!” the prince roared, and he turned to look at the older man. “I’ve had enough for one night. You are excused, General, and all your men.” Basaal took a deep breath. “Annan, I will detain you a moment longer.”

  Drakta stalked out, followed by the other officers. Annan stood where he was, until the tent had been emptied. When they were again alone, Basaal’s face utterly transformed. He seemed tired, even defeated, and in front of Annan, he maintained no display of hierarchy.

  “You did well, Annan,” Basaal said. “I apologize for that.”

  “They are restless, Basaal, and disappointed,” Annan answered. “I fear that you will have a dangerous group come morning.”

  “And, what was said,” Basaal asked, “when I did not come lead the host across the plain?”

  Eleanor watched as the young man, this Annan, shrugged. “At first, nothing was said,” he explained. “They know it’s not uncommon for your father to send his armies ahead under Drakta’s command or to wait until they are in position before riding out himself. But later, when we returned and you were gone, there was talk. Our own spies spread several stories so that there are now too many questions to follow,” he reported. “Drakta doesn’t know what to make of it, but neither does he know what direction to place any suspicion. Returning with your face all bruised and battered doesn’t help but call attention to your absence, mind.”

  As Eleanor made a noise of agreement, it was Annan who made eye contact with her. “May I, Your Grace?” he said to her, stepping forward, and removing her gag. He then untied the ropes that bound her in the chair. In another thoughtful gesture, he retrieved a cup of water and brought it to her. She thanked him and finished it before he’d even had time to say, “You are most welcome.”

  Basaal returned to his seat, next to Eleanor’s, and fell into it. “This has been the longest day of my seven lives,” he cursed in Imirillian.

  Annan settled himself on the rug, reclining on one arm. “Did you know they were going to bring down the mountain, Basaal?” he asked the prince in a near whisper.

  “I knew it was a possibility,” Basaal responded just as quietly. He cursed again then turned to Eleanor. “Of all the ridiculous schemes,” he said. “You pulled a queen’s gambit.”

  Eleanor was too tired to fight. She sat up straight, rubbing her temples with her hands, feeling the swelling of her cheek beneath her fingertips. “It was the only way to stop the Imirillian army—your army,” she added bitterly.

  “Yes,” Basaal said, leaning forward. “My army, sent down, against my own will, to conquer you.”

  The trio sat in silence, listening to the movements of the men in the camp. Eleanor was beginning to fall asleep, when the sound of Basaal’s voice called her back.

  “Annan, I must see the queen settled. Will you do what you can to temper Drakta and his scheming? Also, please have men stand watch around my tent—our men, mind you, not my father’s.”

  Annan nodded and lifted himself up slowly before looking from Basaal to Eleanor.

  “You may sleep well tonight, My Prince,” Annan said. “I will ensure your safety. But, you must be as sharp as a scimitar come morning.” He then bowed to Eleanor and retired from the tent.

  Basaal did not move but continued to slump in his chair. Finally, Eleanor stood.

  “Tell me where I may sleep,” she said. “I am tired.”

  Getting up slowly, Basaal waved towards the low sofa at the far end of the pavilion. “There,” he said. “I will sleep over here.” He seemed almost startled when he looked at her again. “Oh, Eleanor, your face—” As if the friendship they’d built had remained intact, he tried to reach out, to touch her cheek, offering an apology, but Eleanor recoiled.

  “Do not touch me,” she said, lifting her eyes to his. “Ever again.”

  Chapter Two

  Prince Basaal woke early. Although he had not slept well, with the first hint of daylight sleep was gone. He lay on his back, following the patterns of the pavilion with his eyes. Eleanor had slept fitfully, but she now lay still, breathing steady and deep. He looked in her direction, watching her still form, wrapped in elegant blankets of red, gold, and blue. Golden tassels dripped from the sofa on which she lay, with rugs of lattice design below. In some ways, the finery suited her well. Yet, in other ways, she looked out of place, too wild and free for the colorful trappings of the Imirillian Empire. Or, perhaps, he mused, too tame.

  The camp was noiseless, except for the sounds of guards walking outside his tent. Basaal pulled himself off the mass of cushions on the floor and walked
towards the table, where two basins of cool water waited. He washed his face then removed his tunic and shirt, to bathe and change into the clean clothes laid out for him by Annan.

  He pulled the black shirt over his shoulders, then he lifted the thin black jacket of his own design. It had stiff shoulders, a high collar, and gold buttons, securing it tightly against his frame. Basaal threw the clothing he had worn in Aemogen towards the door of the tent to be burned.

  After he had dressed himself, Basaal took a key, hanging from around his neck, and walked quietly towards one of the large trunks in his pavilion. Inside were the rest of the trappings he had ordered Annan to bring down from Imirillia. He unpacked his arsenal of personal weaponry, adding to the sword and knives he carried two additional daggers, sporting black handles embedded with twists of pearl. He also found his quiver and bow, adorned with similar ornamentation. Compared to the nondescript bows of Aemogen, Basaal’s personal weapon looked like a taut, elegant serpent, waiting to strike.

  Basaal pulled the strap of his quiver over his head and placed one dagger in a sheath next to his scabbard and the other in a sheath under his sleeve. The steel was cold against the skin of his arm. He then stood and threw his bow on the shoulder opposite the quiver.

  Basaal began to feel his body settling back into who he was, and he breathed deeply, the complex emotions of the last several months shifting against the familiar landscape of his life. Preparing himself, he rustled among the folded garments at the base of the large trunk until he found what had been plaguing his mind all summer: the small velvet bag that contained his Safeeraah.

  Opening the bag quickly, Basaal ran his fingers through the bracelets and bands, feeling the relief of a traveler come home. Spreading them on the ground before him, he noted that the Safeeraah had been repaired and cleaned, probably by Dantib, the stable master of Basaal’s palace in Zarbadast. Eager to secure them once again in place, he glanced back at the sleeping queen, perhaps from a habit of believing that, somehow, all would be well between them. Eleanor slept on, so he gathered the Safeeraah and returned them to their place within his large trunk, the lock catching as the heavy lid fell into place.