by Beth Brower
“Everyone in the throne room will know what it means,” Ammar said, “including the emperor.”
“It could provoke Father terribly,” Basaal said.
“He’s already provoked,” Eleanor replied. “You took care of that.”
“Even if your entrance is brilliant,” Basaal countered. “What then?”
Eleanor gave Basaal a look of stiff determination. “Some counter-bargain interesting enough for him to take,” she said. “I have to trust that I can think fast enough to come out with my life.”
Basaal drummed his fingers against the table, but he didn’t speak, his face still looking pale, whether from blood loss or worry, Eleanor didn’t know.
“Our time is short,” Ammar said. He snapped his fingers and walked towards the doors. “Basaal, send word to the stables to prepare Hegleh.” Then he opened the door and gave quiet instructions to Tameez, who went running. Ammar turned back towards Eleanor. “Let’s turn you into the messenger angel.”
***
When Basaal returned to the throne room, he wore an annoyed expression. It was the only self-defense that he had for the fear and anger inside of him. His father was speaking with a group of generals, standing with them behind the throne, smiling as if he were showing the audience not only that he knew full well Basaal would pull that stunt but also that he had approved it.
A servant handed Basaal a drink, which he accepted despite having already had too many. As he began snaking his way through the crowd, people parted as he passed. Even those he considered friends knew better than to speak with him. He was sure his anger was palpable.
“That was bold,” Arsaalan said as he appeared, pulling Basaal towards an empty corner, where they could not be overheard by the many spectators and admirers. “I was half expecting you to not make it out alive after that stunt you pulled with Father.”
Basaal looked at his brother before taking a long drink. “I’m not sure it was simply a stunt.”
“Careful,” Arsaalan warned. “Father is doing his best to convince everybody else it was. Don’t let your own anger lure you into a trap.”
It is almost too late for that, Basaal wanted to respond, but he remained silent.
“Who do you suppose will fight the Aemogen queen?” the usually quiet Arsaalan asked. “Perhaps Kiarash? You don’t think he would actually kill her, do you?” he continued. “For her sake, it would be quick, and for your sake, Aemogen would then sit easy in your hands, uncontested. But it seems quite barbaric, even for Father.”
Basaal could barely speak the words, but a quiet warning hissed from his throat.
Arsaalan fell quiet, and then a trumpet sounded. Basaal saw that the emperor had returned to the throne and that the spectators were moving back to their places. A look of understanding crossed Arsaalan’s face, and he glanced away, noticeably uncomfortable.
“Forgive me, Basaal,” he whispered. “I did not realize you had feelings for her, or I would never have said such a thing—”
“Hold me together,” Basaal said, interrupting his brother with this quiet plea as he watched their father. “I cannot keep myself as I did in Aramesh, I can feel it.”
An image kept coming before his eyes of Eleanor falling dead on the white marble, her blood swelling into a puddle. He couldn’t shut it out. He was reliving the nightmare of Emaad’s death. Arsaalan gave Basaal a nod, took his cup from him, and handed it to a servant. They moved towards the front of the crowd, where Shaamil caught sight of them.
“Here is our victor now,” the emperor said. Shaamil’s dark eyes challenged Basaal. “Is your queen ready for her challenge?”
As if on cue, a sound came from the vast corridor outside the throne room; the echo of a light clip, bouncing off the walls, getting louder and louder until it was as if a continual drum of clear thunder came clattering towards them. Basaal watched as the tall brass doors opened and in rode Seraagh, the messenger angel of the Illuminating God.
A ripple sounded through the crowd as Eleanor, atop the stately Hegleh, rode directly into the empty circle before the emperor’s throne, her eyes piercing, her lips stilled in graceful pause, Eleanor circled the room, staring down the audience as she passed.
Basaal was almost as stunned by her transformation as the spectators were at her sudden appearance. She was draped in a beautiful gown of white, a tie of silver fabric about her waist, with silver and gold bracelets about her arms, bangles around her ankles, and a long golden chain around her neck, hosting a pendant with the emblem of the sun. Her hair hung loose as if it were aflame, adorned with ribbons of gold, catching the light. Basaal realized that sitting on the tall horse had brought Eleanor to an even height with the emperor’s throne.
“So, this is the Queen of Aemogen?” Shaamil asked. He raised his eyebrows, but he did not smile.
“And this is the Emperor of Imirillia,” Eleanor replied in flawless Imirillian.
“I have called you here to face a challenge for your life,” the emperor said. “Yet, I see that you have no weapon.”
Eleanor’s response came quickly. “And I have come to answer the challenge,” she said. “But, neither do you have a weapon, Your Grace.” She sat straight on Hegleh, turning the horse’s head towards the left as she gazed directly at Shaamil.
Basaal watched the interaction with his arms folded, his right hand around his injury, the corners of his mouth turned down, waiting for his father to speak. Shaamil had never fought in a challenge, but something in the way he worked his jaw and watched Eleanor, caused Basaal to wonder if the emperor was considering it.
“I had assumed,” Eleanor spoke again, “that an emperor and a queen were suited for a challenge.”
“Oh, had you?” Shaamil demanded. He snapped his fingers, and a servant came forward with a drink. After taking a long sip, the emperor almost smiled.
“The Imirillian Empire has little tolerance for rebellion,” he said. He took another sip then moved his tongue over his teeth while staring at Eleanor. “I should have just killed you outright, without a challenge, as I may yet decide to do.”
Arsaalan leaned close at Basaal’s back. “Wait it out,” he whispered.
Basaal stiffened and glared at Arsaalan in return.
“Aemogen is an independent nation with no sovereign save myself,” Eleanor said, tilting her chin upward and answering with a steady voice. “We are no rebels, so I take exception to your definition. I suggest that you should appreciate having a neighbor on this continent as strong as yourself,” she added. “One with no interest in your scope or power, if we are left alone.”
“You are not as strong as Imirillia,” Shaamil chuckled. “Look about yourself.”
“Strength is not always defined by numbers, Shaamil.” When Eleanor spoke his name, something changed in the emperor’s face, as if the scene had just turned into a ghost story. Basaal and Arsaalan looked at each other. With her accent of the South and her meticulous adherence to the Imirillian accent, Eleanor had sounded as if she were Edith, Basaal’s mother, and had spoken the emperor’s name from the grave.
“What, then, is it measured by?” Shaamil asked, his voice hissing out like a stream of sand in the wind.
“It is by the virtue of the people and the virtue of the one by whom they are led,” Eleanor answer skillfully. “I may appear to be lacking many things, Shaamil,” she said, repeating his name to great effect, “but, I do have honor born of virtue, and I can stand before any man. I propose again that you leave Aemogen be, for we have no desire for conquest and will not disturb your empire.”
The emperor’s eyes flicked towards Basaal then back at Eleanor. “It is too late for that,” Shaamil said. Basaal shifted on his feet, all his emotions sinking inside of him.
“Then, if I must fight for my life,” Eleanor said, “let us fight with our minds.”
The emperor laughed out loud. “I find you amusing,” he said. “Fight with our minds? And you would hope to best me in this?”
Eleanor did
not respond, she only continued to stare at him.
“Can you read this?” Basaal whispered to his brother. Arsaalan shook his head.
“I have never seen Father interact with someone in such a way,” Arsaalan answered. “He despises her, yet there is something else—honestly, there’s a hint of your mother in her.”
Hegleh had become disquieted, and Eleanor calmed her with a soft voice, the bangles on her wrist catching the light as she moved. Basaal wanted desperately to tear himself away from the spectacle, to disappear until it was done, but he felt frozen in place.
“And,” Shaamil said when she didn’t reply, “is my message from the Illuminating God that I must lower myself to challenge you in mind games?” Shaamil asked. “I did not realize that Seraagh had time for such diversions.”
“All I am asking,” Eleanor replied, “is that you grant me a direct challenge, my intelligence against yours. Surely, my life is worth that consideration.”
“No one’s life is worth that,” Shaamil said, leaning back in his throne and placing his fingertips together, considering her. “But—” he added.
“Yes?” Eleanor responded when he did not continue.
“But, what do you suggest?” the emperor asked as he feigned impatience. “You wish to challenge me, but how, exactly, is that to be done?”
Basaal could feel beads of perspiration run down his back. He watched Eleanor’s face as she prepared to reply. Her hands must have been beginning to shake, he realized, for they were sending shimmers of light from the bangles around her wrists.
“Do you know the game chess?” she finally asked.
“You would stake your life on a game of chess?” Shaamil laughed again.
“Imirillian rules,” Eleanor clarified quickly before the emperor’s amusement could abate and he might send her to hang without a challenge.
The emperor was still smiling. “Imirillian rules?” he asked. “And where, might I ask, did you learn them?” Shaamil did not look towards him, but Basaal knew the familiar tone of his father preparing to deliver an insult. “I fear,” Shaamil said, “that you may have had a faulty teacher, for he is no great player himself. There is an Imirillian proverb of sorts that seems fitting now: When you draw mud from the well, you will never find water in the vessel.”
Basaal blanched. Several spectators looked his direction, but Basaal steeled his expression. The distance that began in Aramesh between him and his father, ever growing perpetually wider, now ripped apart.
“He is testing you,” Arsaalan whispered. “He is bating you. Do not react.”
“I believe,” Eleanor said, her voice cutting through Basaal’s embarrassment, “that there is another fitting Imirillian saying, which states, Do you decline a weaker adversary? Why, then, your own strength is folly, for it goes unproved.”
The mirth in Shaamil’s face dropped. “You dare suggest that I am afraid to challenge you?”
“I argue for my life,” Eleanor replied. “I dare suggest anything.”
Shaamil ran his hand through his hair and set his face in an expression that reminded Basaal of himself. Eleanor must have seen the same resemblance, for she frowned.
“Get that horse out of my throne room,” Shaamil said, motioning impatiently towards a member of his guard.
Basaal almost stepped forward to help Eleanor down from Hegleh, but he remembered to hold himself back. Aligning himself with the queen—any more than he already had—would not help her case.
Arsaalan stepped down into the center and walked towards Eleanor, helping her dismount. Then the guard took Hegleh’s reins and lead the horse from the throne room. Eleanor nodded a thank you to Arsaalan and then stood, facing Shaamil, who now held a distinct visual advantage. To emphasize the point, Shaamil rose to his feet and placed his hands behind his back, looking down at the Aemogen queen. Eleanor lifted her chin in response.
Returning to Basaal’s side, Arsaalan exchanged a look with him before turning to watch the emperor.
“You wish to play a game of chess for your life?” Shaamil asked, raising his eyebrows as he paced before the throne. His amusement seemed to have passed, but Basaal could still see a trail of thought in the emperor’s eyes.
The entire room was silent as the emperor paced back and forth, the men were standing, their arms crossed, their expression curious, and the women were refraining from whispering to one another, moving their eyes from the emperor to Eleanor and back. Some eyes lingered on Basaal, so he kept his face steady, not revealing the tumult of emotions that he fought inside himself.
Twice, Basaal flicked his eyes from his father to Eleanor, who stood very straight and still, looking undaunted, no longer shaking. She offered no expression or movement save the slight movement of a finger on her right hand, which she was rubbing against her thumb in the nervous habit that Basaal recognized. He almost smiled.
“I will accept your proposal under one condition,” Shaamil finally said, drawing Basaal’s attention back to his father’s face.
Eleanor waited silently.
“If you win,” Shaamil said, “your life is yours to keep. I will honor that. But, if you lose,” the emperor said, smiling as he paused, waiting like a serpent before letting his words spring, “you die now—beheaded, executed before the assembly by the hand of Basaal, seventh son.”
Noise began to ring in Basaal’s ears.
Eleanor moved to respond. “I—” she began.
But Shaamil raised his hand. “But,” he said, “the prince must be the one to decide. Either you hang tomorrow, or he accepts the terms of the challenge, on penalty of his own life if he refuses to fulfill them.”
Everything in the world seemed to stop—there was neither movement nor voice nor sound—and all was still as Basaal heard those words, from his father’s mouth, again in his mind. He closed his eyes and involuntarily shuddered.
Arsaalan placed his hand on Basaal’s back to steady him. Basaal could feel his brother’s pulse through his jacket. Or was that his own? Everything in the world was gone—the pain in his arm, the anger he had felt for his father—it had all dissipated to make room for a heavy stone that weighed down his heart, stealing all his senses and leaving him only the horror of the choice before him. Eleanor would hang or risk dying by his own hand.
Basaal opened his eyes. His father, Eleanor, and everyone else stood, watching his face. Without realizing why, he scanned the faces before him. His brothers were all there, their wives, friends and acquaintances. Ammar stood across the room from Basaal, his expression lined with trepidation, but he did not send a signal to his youngest brother—no hint, no message.
“What is your choice, my son?” Shaamil asked. “Does she hang? Or do you accept the challenge?”
Basaal crossed his arms. He looked down at his feet, his mouth opening to speak, but no words came out.
“Speak, or I shall order you kill her now!”
Basaal snapped his head up, his eyes focused solely on his father. “I will speak when I have made a decision,” Basaal said, his voice sounding harsh, even to his own ears. “Allow me to speak with the Aemogen queen privately.”
Shaamil’s eyes narrowed into slits. “No. Your decision, Prince. Where do you stand?”
“Give me a moment, or go to the devil!” Basaal shouted as he took a step forward, walking toward Eleanor.
The emperor stood but signaled that his guards, who were approaching Basaal, should wait. Eleanor watched him come towards her, her lips parted as if trying to warn him, but she said nothing. Her face was pale, but her eyes were steady. Basaal was breathing deeply. He was angry, so angry. He stood before Eleanor, arms crossed, his back purposefully towards the emperor.
“Don’t be foolish,” she mouthed, hardly uttering any sound.
“I will not have your blood on my hands,” Basaal spoke said in Eleanor’s native language. “If you lose against my father, I will not kill you.”
Eleanor lifted a half smile, although her voice shook. “Don’t
you see that you must? For Aemogen?”
“No.” He shook his head again. “I cannot stand the thought of seeing you hanged, but I could never strike you down by my own hand. My life, instead, would be forfeit.”
“Accept the challenge, Basaal.” Eleanor set her eyes on his and spoke firmly but quietly, so only he could hear her. “If you must kill me, it would be better than to have you die and have all of Aemogen suffer. Think of them—Crispin, Aedon, Edythe, and all the people—I need you to lead that army.”
“I can’t,” Basaal said, and he brought his hand to the side of her neck.
“You must,” Eleanor whispered again. “I beg you to do everything to retain your post. You know what it means to serve something bigger than your own life.”
Basaal took a deep breath and bent his head again, though his eyes were lifted, studying her face. Eleanor’s eyes, in turn, were asking for a promise that he couldn’t give.
“I am waiting for an answer!” Shaamil said, his voice ringing off Basaal’s back.
“Promise me,” she whispered.
“So be it,” Basaal said, closing his eyes a brief moment. Then he spoke in Imirillian as he turned around to glare at his father. “Let it be the challenge.”
Thunderous applause and cheers filled the hall as Basaal began to walk back towards Arsaalan. But he stopped and turned back towards Eleanor. It was only a few steps to where Eleanor stood. She looked back towards him, seeming uncertain, her fear beginning to show.
“Win,” he said inaudibly above the roar of the crowd before returning to his place beside Arsaalan.
“So be it,” Shaamil said, echoing Basaal’s words with a slated smile.
***
A table was brought. It was placed in the center of the throne room, along with two chairs and a chess set. The guards moved everyone back ten paces so that Shaamil and Eleanor were the only two who could clearly see the board. The audience was crowded against the walls, all except Basaal. He had refused to move and stood on the top step, watching his father and watching her. Arsaalan stayed only a few steps behind him.
Eleanor stood waiting, nervous, but determinted. The emperor, still on his throne, motioned for Eleanor to sit in the chair before her, which she did. Shaamil studied Eleanor for several minutes before he rose from the throne and stepped down towards the table. He sat opposite her. Despite her courage, she felt flustered and vulnerable, sitting so close to the emperor. He stared at her for several moments before motioning for her to set the board.