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

by Beth Brower

  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.<
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  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.”

  Basaal considered the soldier. “That should work,” he said. “It’s better than to offer rations so small we lose half the animals. Although caravans are not as common this time of year, you are bound to find someone.”

  “Then, let us leave tonight,” Ashan suggested. “The moon is full and the desert quiet.”

  Basaal stood and looked at the pink sunset across the Zeaad. “Yes, leave tonight,” he said. “Take twenty-five men with you and half the water supply. You must be able to ride fast. We will wait for you at the western ruins.”

  The city of Zarbadast had been victim of the desert sands for ages, moving and shifting with the temper of the wind. After a fierce desert storm, ruins would be found miles from the capital, remnants of where the city had once stood a thousand years ago. Shaamil’s grandfather had been the first emperor to begin building walls—tall, thick walls—which fought the shifting sand and anchored Zarbadast below the high desert pass. But, the remains of where Zarbadast had once been still rose for miles out in all directions from the great city.

  It was in one of the more famous ruins that Basaal and the company left behind now waited. It was hot and golden and unbearably bright. He divided his time between the slight relief of the ruins’ shade and the stifling, dirty reality of his tent, where Eleanor lay sick with fever, dazed at some times and unresponsive at others.

  “Eleanor,” he said as he shook her shoulder to offer her some water, but she didn’t move.

  Frustrated, Basaal sat down beside her and pushed her hair away from her flushed face, before unwinding a filthy cloth from around Eleanor’s wound. The fever had, perhaps, come from her infected hand. Basaal had not known when Eleanor sustained the injury; it agitated him that she had not bothered to mention it when he had medicines. Cleaning it as well as he could, Basaal used more water than he should have, placing a few drops of oil on the infection before wrapping it in a strip of black cloth that he tore from the only clean shirt he had among his things.

  “Eleanor,” he repeated. When she failed again to respond, Basaal left Eleanor under the watchcare of Annan and rejoined his soldiers among the ruins.

  Late the next day, his men returned with enough water to get the entire company to Zarbadast. Basaal was so anxious to reach Zarbadast he ordered the company to continue riding long into the night, asking Annan to ride with Eleanor seated before him, if necessary.

  ***

  Of all the things Eleanor was too ill to care about, she did notice how Basaal’s mood elevated as the day continued. He spoke comfortably with his companions, laughing easily and looking eagerly at the horizon line.

  Eleanor, feverish and sore, told herself the journey was almost over, that somewhere, in some Zarbadast dungeon, she would find cold, and her muscles would cease to ache. She held onto Hegleh, despite the difficulty of it. If Basaal had noticed her struggle, he had shown no outward response. Eleanor figured he must have left Zarbadast over ten months past. He seemed to grow younger in anticipation, stronger; she grew weaker.

  Finally, after enduring the remaining days through the sun-touched Zeaad, they could see an endless tumble of towers and shadows, rising above the sands in the distance.

  “Zarbadast,” Annan said, speaking the word softly in her ear.

  Eleanor’s head felt clouded, but she made an especial effort to look ahead and focus her eyes. There it was, sprawling endlessly over the golden desert. Eleanor had never imagined such a large city could ever exist. Zarbadast was a stunning vision, anchored into the dust, rolling outward as if it were made of dunes itself.

  High up above the endless maze of buildings, Eleanor thought she could see several white turrets and arches. As Eleanor brushed the grit away from her eyes, she wondered at the sheer number of people that would populate such a great city. With the end so near in sight, her body began to turn into itself, giving in to whatever sickness had caught hold. The saddle had worn her skin away in some places, and her h
ands carried blisters from holding the reins. The cut on her palm had even become infected again. She gripped the mane of Annan’s horse to keep from falling.

  “Are you managing, Your Majesty?” Annan asked, sounding worried.

  Eleanor offered him a tight smile. She almost told him no, that her shoulders felt pulled down by the weight of her arms, that her lungs had breathed in too much sand, and that her muscles were wrapped in the heat of the day, sore against her bones. Instead, she concentrated only on holding her head up. Annan nodded but looked towards Basaal as if he would say something.

  They set up camp on the top of a rise that looked over the long desert valley that lay before Zarbadast. Her tent was facing the great city, but Eleanor took little notice of the spectacle before her. She crashed onto the dust-filled cushions and slept. That night, Basaal came in late. He was close to Eleanor, whispering her name until he had pulled her out of sleep.

  “Annan tells me you are much worse,” he said.

  Eleanor found it hard to speak for the fire behind her eyes. He placed a hand against her cheek and cursed.

  “Don’t worry, Eleanor. In Zarbadast, there will be plenty of water and fruit and rest.” His words seemed heavy in Eleanor’s mind, and she kept thinking that Aedon was there. “There is something I want you to see,” he said. “But, if you are too ill—”

  “What is it?” she asked Aedon. But, upon opening her eyes, he was not there, just Wil—or Basaal—looking from her to the door of the tent. “Basaal?” she asked. “What did you want to show me?” He ran his hand along her arm, finding her hand in the darkness, and pulled Eleanor to her feet. She almost stumbled with the dizziness of standing, but Basaal caught her.

  “Shall I lay you back down?” he asked.

  Eleanor shook her head. “What is it you wanted to show me?” Basaal helped Eleanor walk to the front of the tent, his right arm catching around her waist, helping her to stand. With his left hand, he pulled the flap of the tent back.