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

by Beth Brower

  “Zarbadast,” was all Basaal said.

  Pitch blackness lay before them. There was no moon to light the waves of the desert. But Zarbadast shone out of the darkness—a living, breathing creature—with lights tucked among the shadows, looking like coals from a fire that had once covered the world, pulsing all about the city in orange, yellow, and red. It made Zarbadast look like a mystery, a mesmerizing mystery.

  The white palaces rose high, illuminated on the crest of a hill, the walls and curves of their turrets striking, imperial, powerful. This was a mighty city, unbroken and strong. If it had seemed imposing in the daylight, at night it was a tale that you’d heard and never could believe to be true. Eleanor gripped Basaal’s arm—Zarbadast was a dragon sleeping in its own embers.

  Chapter Six

  The adrenaline from entering the eastern gates of Zarbadast gifted Eleanor with enough coherency to see past the pounding in her head and to wonder at the sheer size of the sprawl before her. People swarmed in the hot sun, selling, shouting, calling, and moving through the dusty streets around myriad structures.

  Basaal’s eyes were bright; his mood, jubilant. He rode at the head of the column as if his very blood ran with the sights and sounds of the city. The people gathered to watch their prince. They were wide-eyed and cheering so loud Eleanor’s ears hurt. Basaal looked about him with a genuine pleasure to be home. Eleanor gripped Hegleh’s reins to steady herself, and did not know what to watch, the city or its prince.

  After winding upward through markets and roads thick with people, they passed several well-appointed buildings and private homes. Then they came to an ornate set of arches, leading up to the pinnacle of Zarbadast, the imposing royal palaces.

  Defying the desert, defying everything around it, stood the palace of Emperor Shaamil. Turrets, towers, arches, and domes—all were startlingly white, covering what must have been acres and acres of land. Even lush trees, unknown and strange to Eleanor, could be seen above the walls. When the sound of several trumpets called, the tall gates swung open, and a cold chill ran the length of Eleanor’s body.

  Annan dropped back to ride beside Eleanor as they entered a vast courtyard. Buildings carved in elegance rose to the left and the right, but directly ahead was an immense staircase. The distinct sound of more trumpets slit the blue sky, and legions of servants appeared. Basaal dismounted as several well-dressed men—young men, tall and proud—came down the wide stairs to greet the prince. They embraced Basaal, laughing with him and, from what Eleanor could see, teasing him.

  “The older princes,” Annan told Eleanor quietly.

  “But,” Eleanor whispered, shaking her clouded head. “Only five have come out to greet him. Does Shaamil not have seven sons?”

  Annan did not answer, but then Eleanor remembered Basaal claiming the Imirillian army had killed his brother. She looked towards Annan to inquire when a wave of nausea ran through her body, and she leaned forward, gripping Hegleh’s reins, desperately trying to not lose her balance.

  ***

  After a strong embrace, Emir, Basaal’s eldest brother, grabbed him by the collar. “You come in, looking like a desert dog,” he said. “I really should not know you until you make yourself presentable.”

  Laughing, Basaal clapped Emir on the shoulder, soon finding himself in the arms of Arsaalan, fourth son.

  “Little brother returned,” Arsaalan said as he passed Basaal into the arms of Kiarash, fifth son. Then Ammar, third son of the emperor, in the white robes of his place as royal physician, welcomed Basaal home. He put his arm around Basaal’s shoulders then leaned in close.

  “It sounds like you are playing a dangerous game with Father,” Ammar wryly whispered to Basaal.

  “You’ve no room to censure me on that point,” Basaal said as he elbowed Ammar in return, looking into his brother’s dark eyes. “Does he not come to greet me?”

  “He’s up on the balcony now, watching you like a desert hawk,” Ammar explained.

  Then Annan cried out. Basaal spun around to see the cause, turning in time to see Eleanor crashing to the ground. Basaal’s muscles tensed, and he had almost gone back down the steps before he caught himself.

  From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of his father on the high balcony, watching this homecoming, his dark eyes intent on Basaal. And so, Basaal stood idle, careful to keep his face impassive as Annan dismounted and dropped to Eleanor’s side, lifting her into his arms.

  “Ammar, will you see to the Queen of Aemogen?”

  The physician was already moving down the stairs. He knelt down beside Eleanor, placing the back of his hand on her face before lifting her up. “I will take her to the physician’s apartments,” Ammar called up to Basaal.

  Basaal nodded. “As you wish.” He motioned for his men to dismount and head for the stables.

  His groom and old friend, Dantib, had appeared and was leading Refigh away. Basaal gave him an unseen greeting. In response, Dantib looked towards Eleanor then flashed his eyes back towards Basaal in question.

  “She goes to the dungeons.” These words from the emperor rang down into the courtyard. “The Aemogen queen has defied the Imirillian Empire. The dungeons are sufficient for her convalescence.”

  Basaal looked up at his father, but the emperor showed no pleasure in seeing him. His dark eyes did not conceal the anger burning there, and Basaal felt a pressure against his lungs, as if he were suffocating, a sensation accompanied by the bitter taste of being a disappointment. Welcome home, he thought as he bowed. Then he called up to the emperor, “So be it, Father.”

  An attendant lifted the unconscious Eleanor from Ammar’s arms, taking her, under the supervision of the physician, toward the dungeons below the farthest away of all the palaces. Basaal watched her disappear from the corner of his eye, careful to keep the panic he felt from showing on his face.

  “Come,” Arsaalan said, putting his hand on Basaal’s shoulder. “We have food and drink and rest,” he said. “And you have stories.”

  “Stories to put us all to sleep,” Kiarash ribbed him.

  Basaal laughed and blew out his breath. “I, Brother, have been seeing the world,” Basaal said. “While you have been growing softer.”

  “Or wiser,” Kiarash suggested.

  In the company of his brothers, the feelings of homecoming Basaal had carried all morning fell once again about his shoulders. And, with his father’s shadow set aside, he felt pleased to have returned home.

  ***

  Eleanor woke freezing. She was alone in the dark, lying stiffly beneath a thin blanket. The cold she had wished for had now settled into the muscles of her back. Her neck felt wet; her head, heavier than she could have managed to move. She opened her mouth to breathe easier, but it brought little relief, for the air burned against her lungs.

  Beneath her body, Eleanor felt the pricks of straw sticking into her skin, but she didn’t care enough to shift. The hours of the night seemed infinite, for, just as Eleanor was slipping into sleep, she would cough, sending her head reeling, blood pounding against her temples, until she knew she would go mad. After she finally abandoned the idea of sleep, Eleanor lay on her back, laboring to breathe despite the fire in her lungs, thinking of home—thinking of the green and the cool of Aemogen.

  At length, she heard the sound of metal scraping against metal and then footsteps. They seemed to last forever, echoing inside her head until she wanted to shout for them to stop. Then the door to Eleanor’s cell grated, and words were exchanged between people whose voices she did not know.

  Eleanor began coughing again in the dust of the dungeon, painful and searing. She pushed her shoulders over so that her head faced the door. It was the physician there, bending over her, feeling her pulse, and putting his hand on her forehead.

  “Water!” he called.

  Then there was noise and movement and someone touching her throat. Eleanor flinched and pulled away, but her head was held by the physician as he helped her to drink.

  �
�She’s been like this all night?” he asked. “And you didn’t notify me?” He then called the guard a string of names Eleanor didn’t recognize. “I’m going to lift you,” he said softly to Eleanor, “and carry you to the physician’s chambers.”

  Eleanor gave no response. She was too tired. She felt him putting his arms under her shoulders and behind her knees, and then the physician lifted her. Closing her eyes against the light, Eleanor tucked her face into the man’s shoulder. Each of his movements felt jarring, extending the pain in Eleanor’s body. When he finally set her down, it was on a cool white bed, but Eleanor’s relief was short-lived. She tried to keep her eyes shut, but they were too swollen.

  Someone else was in the room, a young man, and, at a word from the physician, he began mixing something in a glass vial. The sound of his stirring against the glass seemed like it would never end, and Eleanor wished that he could see how much she wanted him to go away and to stop making any sounds.

  When the sound did cease, the physician helped Eleanor drink the sweet-smelling liquid. Her eyes met his, and she blinked. Then she was soon asleep.

  ***

  To Basaal, predawn in Zarbadast had always been a comfortable time, warm, weightless, with the city looking serene, catching blues and pinks on its walls while waiting for the golden sun. Basaal took himself to his stables, where he found Dantib, attending to a sick mare in a corner stall. They embraced tenderly.

  “What tale does our journeyman bring home?” Dantib asked as Basaal sank into the corner of the stable as he had many times while speaking with his mentor. The prince fingered the black, knotted Safeeraah on his wrist while Dantib settled himself atop an old barrel, preparing to listen attentively, his arms crossed. His old, arthritic fingers—with swollen knuckles and tested skin—drummed a patient tattoo as Basaal began to recounted his journey in Aemogen. Basaal held nothing back, speaking of his follies and his virtues in honest words without pretense.

  Dantib did not interrupt, but when the sun broke over the desert and into Zarbadast, Basaal stood and brushed the straw from his clothing. “I must return,” he said. “But, before I go, will you tell me your thoughts?”

  Dantib scratched the faint white stubble on his cheek. “I would think more on what you have told me first.”

  “Yes.” Basaal’s brow creased as he ran his fingers along the Safeeraah on his forearms. “I have always sought to honor my covenants, Dantib. But now, I’m not certain I understand fully how to do that.”

  “It is meant to be a journey, not an event, in any case,” Dantib said as he stood slowly. “I wait in time, for I cannot move without it. That is how the saying goes, is it not?” the old stable master asked, knowing full well that it was.

  ***

  Voices in low conversation woke Eleanor. She could feel herself stir, trying to breathe deeply, but her lungs still burned. She moved her head to the side, but the weight of the fever pushed against her eyes and against her bones.

  “How long has she been like this?”

  “Two days. It’s quite dangerous, Basaal. If her fever doesn’t break tonight—”

  “Her breathing is so labored.”

  “Whatever caused this infection is in her lungs, throat, head, and, probably, her muscles.”

  She felt a hand touch her face. “Does she drink?”

  “Some,” she heard the physician respond. “Not nearly as much as I would like.”

  Eleanor tried to open her eyes. Basaal was there. If she could but speak to him—it felt impossible. Her efforts fell short as she caught her breath.

  “You can’t do anything, Basaal, and I think it wise if you were not seen here. The emperor is not pleased, but I held my ground. The physician’s oath and all that it entails is my defense. But you should go. Don’t get tangled up with your political prisoner anymore than you have to.”

  After a few moments of silence, Eleanor turned onto her side.

  “Will you keep me informed on how she fares?” Basaal asked.

  “Yes, of course.”

  Eleanor again faded away into sleep.

  ***

  When Eleanor opened her eyes, it was to the sound of running water. She was awake, and her mind was clear. It felt like ages she had slept. She was on a large, comfortable bed set beneath three open windows that looked out over a garden. Eleanor pulled herself to the end and moved her feet down onto the cool floor. Her mouth pulling into a line, she lifted herself in an effort to stand, but her legs shook, and she couldn’t steady herself. Eleanor sank back down and looked about. She was wearing a clean garment of white. The room itself was also white with punches of exotic color. Mercifully, there was no sand.

  “You are not yet ready to do much, I’m afraid,” a voice said in Imirillian. Eleanor turned to see the physician standing in the doorway. “Although, I am relieved to see you looking so well,” he added. “May I come in?”

  Eleanor nodded. “Would you mind telling me how long I’ve been ill?” Eleanor’s tongue stumbled over that last word.

  “Only a small number of days.” The physician entered and sat on an ornate chair with cushions of bright colors. “My name is Ammar, and I am the court physician,” he explained. “You have been treated by myself and my assistant, Tameez.”

  “Yes, I remember.” She brushed her hair away from the side of her face and looked at the physician. “I admit, I thought you were a prince.”

  “I am.” Ammar’s smile was kind, but it was not engaging. “Third son.”

  Eleanor wanted to ask after Basaal, but she didn’t.

  “You’re doing much better,” Ammar continued. “Today, you must begin to eat stronger foods than the weak broth we have been giving you. But, it is still a time of rest,” he added. “You mustn’t push yourself too hard.”

  Eleanor was again beginning to feel light-headed. “What is to be done with me, Prince Ammar?”

  “Basaal says he will see you become his wife; the emperor, my father, says he will see you hanged. They’ll fight it out.”

  Eleanor liked the physician’s candor. “Those are my only options?” she asked.

  “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.

  “Quit
e 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.”