The Queen's Gambit: Book One of Imirillia (The Books of Imirillia 1)
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Authors: 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
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The Queen’s Gambit : Book One of Imirillia / Beth Brower. p. cm. 3. Fantasy. 2. Adventure and Adventurers —Fiction. I. Title.
Cover by Kevin Cantrell Design
To my parents,
Who taught their children what is most important.
And who also gave us the book closet.
We often stayed awake reading after you had put us to bed.
But I think you already knew that…
Preview of The Ruby Prince: Book Two of Imirillia
About the Author
Nation will war against nation, burdening the innocent; their battles birth death, and the midwives of the Illuminating God cover their ears for the cry of it.
—Seventh Mark of the Second Scroll
He crossed the courtyard in silent agitation. The darkness was thick, and sounds rose from the city beyond the walls. The stones of the lower courtyard, pressed and smooth, seemed to bend down beneath the heavy night that had fallen. He entered the stables to find Dantib and Annan waiting. Without looking at either, he approached his white horse. Hegleh had been saddled and was impatient for their journey. In the next stall over, Refigh, his favored stallion, pouted. He called to Refigh, touching his hand to the horse’s face with brusque affection.
“I won’t be gone long,” he said to the horse, defending his leave-taking.
He watched as Dantib, the old stable master, continued preparing Hegleh, then he turned ruefully towards Annan, his comrade-in-arms and, consequently, his closest friend.
“You must ride quick to catch the company gone ahead,” Annan said.
He offered Annan the hint of a grimace, lined with challenge.
“What is it?” Annan asked. “You have words waiting on the edge of your tongue.”
He raised an eyebrow and gave a dangerous smile. “No words, my friend,” he answered, “only obedience to my sovereign.”
“Do you ride for your emperor unwillingly?”
“The emperor of Imirillia, and his sons,” he grimaced as he spoke, “demand a high price of this continent.”
“And you believe your payment for the service you offer to be—?” Annan asked.
“Glory and honor,” he replied sardonically.
Dantib now opened Hegleh’s stall, leading the white mare out and handing the reins to Annan. Then, Dantib took his young master by the arm and walked him to the door of the stable. With his ancient voice quavering he asked, “What name will you go by?”
The young man shrugged with irritation against the concern in Dantib’s voice. After a halting pause, he spoke the name aloud.
“Wil. I’ll go by Wil,” he said.
“A name of your own.” Dantib nodded, approving.
“A name of my own,” he repeated, more to himself than to the old man.
“Is that all you travel with?” Annan asked.
Swinging his meticulously arranged saddlebags off his shoulder and onto his horse, he glanced down at himself: black clothing in the manner of the southerners, cloak, straight sword, various smaller weapons, and a satchel strung across his back.
“What else should I want?” he asked.
“This, dear boy.” Dantib held out a thin, black, leather band, braided simply together, as knotted and worn as the old man’s hands. “Hold out your right arm, and I will seal it upon you, if you accept it.”
He did as Dantib asked, humility fighting a sour wish to be gone.
“I see you’ve removed all your other Safeeraah,” the stable master stated in patient disapproval.
“Clearly,” he said. “How could I possibly wear them on this journey? I bind myself to the covenants, nonetheless.” He looked towards Annan. “They’re in my armor trunk. Bring them with you.”
Annan gave a quick nod.
“Well,” Dantib said, clicking his tongue as he secured the humble leather band around his young master’s wrist. “You must not forget the Safeeraah I give you now. Listen carefully.” Dantib closed his eyes. “
Though I wander, I am the deep well; I seek transcendence by honor, as the seven stars
.”
He waited for the old man to open his eyes, then he repeated the words earnestly, staring at the braided and knotted band around his right wrist: “
Though I wander, I am the deep well; I seek transcendence by honor, as the seven stars
.” He lifted his wrist to his brow, then to his lips, kissing the band, then to his heart, sealing the Safeeraah and his covenant to it.
Dantib offered a thoughtful expression before speaking again. “I also see you have hidden the mark of your house,” he said. “But do not think you can hide who you are; your honor is evident in your face. For that, I am glad.”
“For that, I might lose my head,” he said, giving the stable master a glance before taking Hegleh’s reins from Annan and leading her from the stable into the heavy darkness beyond. Catching the saddle with a light hand, he pulled himself gracefully astride. Hegleh tossed her head in anticipation. Dantib and Annan waited, watching him.
Closing his eyes, he spoke a prayer of journey. The words felt weighted and significant on his tongue. When his prayer was complete, he exhaled, his fingers tugging at the swath of black cloth that he’d tied securely around his left forearm, covering what his skin revealed.
“Is he watching?” he asked in a low voice.
Dantib nodded, his eyes flickering toward a balcony above the courtyard. “Do not let him be your mind. Remember, transcendence by honor, and you have chosen honor.”
Hegleh snorted and pawed the ground, and so he gave in to her impatience. Looking away from his friends, he cried out, sending his horse flying through the hastily opened gates. Not once did his eyes stray towards the high balcony, where his father stood, watching him. Not once did his heart question his leave-taking of this place.
The rules of war had been changed. Queen Eleanor wanted to know why.
She sat atop a dusty table in the potting shed on the far back stretches of the castle grounds, surrounded by clay pots and plant starts, leaning towards the morning light coming through the diamond-paned windows. In her hands were the latest papers of state needing to be reviewed: reports sent from every fen in Aemogen, as well as the amended Marion constitution, having arrived from her ambassador in Marion City the night before.
The fen reports had been dutifully read first, but it was the Marion papers that had kept Eleanor awake. Marion was their strongest ally—as Aemogen was seabound to the east and south, and mountainbound to the north and west. There was only one entrance into her country, and it was through a mountain pass that connected Marion to Aemogen.
It was not uncommon practice for Marion to alter their amendments of state to suit their own advantage. King Staven had changed the rhetoric of his trade agreements, in an effort to glean the advantage for his country, many times over the years. This was never a surprise. But, the amendments on allies and war had not been altered these past one hundred years, since the warring rulers of Aemogen and Marion had brokered a hard-won peace. And now the rules had been changed.
Having woken from a sleep she had never truly given herself to for the strange dreams of the night, Eleanor had brought the papers of state with her, leaving them in the potting shed as she’d worked in the predawn gardens, fussing in the cold, sticky soil to ease the questions of her mind. Eleanor thought as she cleared away the winter debris, the forgotten, hollowed stocks of plants from the autumn previous, careful around the shoots of green fighting their way out of the earth. Eleanor needed this solitude. She needed to set her mind in place before the crown was once again placed on her head.
When the weak sunlight had fallen over the walls and into the castle grounds, Eleanor had returned to the potting shed and read through the Marion constitution once more. It made no sense. Frowning, Eleanor set the papers aside. It was foolish to worry. It was also foolish, Eleanor knew, not to question. Placing her head in her hands for the space of a long breath, she slipped off the table and set a pottery shard to keep the papers of state safe from the breeze before returning to the garden. Only another hour more and she must prepare for the morning audience.
Digging in the soil, she worked until her cheeks were flush, until her body was warm despite the brisk wind coming down from the north river. Eleanor didn’t mind the wind.
“When the wind comes,” her father had told her, “you don’t shrink from it, you breathe deeper.”
This is what Eleanor did now. Brushing her hands, she looked up, the skirts of her dress whipping about, and watched the snowbells tracing the patterns of the wind with their own light movements. They were the only flowers brave enough to bloom in the forlorn beds this soon after the snow had melted. Swaths and patches of the delicate flowers danced in the wind around Ainsley Castle. As Eleanor watched, she ran her fingers along the edge of her trowel, removing the excess mud, and brushed a loose strand of copper hair away from her face with the back of her hand.
A movement from the corner of her eye caused her to turn, twisting to the left, lifting her knees slightly off the ground as she rocked back on the balls of her feet. There, coming down the gravel path in the shadow of Ainsley Castle, was a young man Eleanor had never seen before. Brushing her hands on her skirt, she wondered who had opened the gates so early.
Pressing her lips together, she appraised the stranger. His clothing—black, all of it, with worn boots and an old cloak—betrayed him as a traveler rather than an Aemogen farmer or tradesman. His pace was easy, but his eyes were watchful as they traced the ancient exterior of the castle, dropped into the garden, and then settled on Eleanor’s figure.
He considered her—as she considered him—and, as he neared where she worked, he gave her a nod.
“Good morning,” he said.
“Pleasant day,” Eleanor responded, her eyebrows drawn together. It was far too early for visitors.
He was younger than she had first thought, and when he moved it was in the loose way of a confident young man. His eyes canvassed her face a moment too long for Eleanor’s personal comfort, before he looked past her toward the outer boundaries of the castle grounds.
“I could understand being a gardener on so wild a day,” he said.
Eleanor straightened her back, frowning. His accent was similar to that of a Marion, yet was unfamiliar all the same, trimmed with northern intonations. His face betrayed the features and cornflower blue eyes of the Marion people, yet his complexion caught Eleanor’s curiosity: his skin was an exotic olive, sun gold and rich, like that of the men of the far north. And, his hair was as dark as the ink in her inkwell, cropped shorter than she was accustomed to. The stranger took a step back from her, lifting his hands to his hips, as if comparing the grounds to some internal measure.
“I heard once,” he said, interrupting her thoughts, “as a small child, that the gardens of Aemogen were incomparable. And, I admit, I always imagined them to be larger.” As he adjusted his cloak, Eleanor could see a sheathed sword about his waist.
She stood.
“This garden belongs to the royal family,” she said. “There are more community gardens, beyond the walls, which would meet your expectations.” Eleanor brushed the dirt from her fingers. “By late spring,” she added, “all of Ainsley is in bloom.”
“With any luck, I’ll see it.” He turned to face Eleanor again. “I’m hoping to remain in Aemogen for some time.”
Eleanor’s internal bulwark pulsed. “I admit to feeling surprise, as you appear to have come from very far.” She gathered her basket and trowel as she spoke, and stepped out onto the path, lifting her chin and constructing a careful assessment of the stranger.
“I might find something worth staying for,” he replied with a disarming shrug. “Travelers ofttimes do.”
“Hmmm.”
The young man fell into step with her as she moved towards the garden sheds against the north wall. Eleanor looked sideways at his face.
“Excuse me for pressing,” she said. “But where are you from exactly? You’ve a strange mix of accents. I—I’m rather curious.”
“My mother came from Marion, and my father—” he said, hesitating a moment before answering tightly, “—my father came from the devil.” The tension in his voice seemed to catch even him off guard, and he grimaced. “I tend to be blown by every wind myself these days.”
She opened her mouth to ask him how one’s father could come from the devil, but he interrupted her, an unreadable expression on his face.
“I hear there is to be a spring festival,” he said. “That’s what has been said in the streets of Ainsley this morning.”
“Yes, it is true.”
“I thought I might enjoy to see it for myself,” he said. “I’ve also heard there is a tradition of Aemogen royals harboring travelers?”
“It is an old tradition,” Eleanor granted, curious how he would have heard of such a thing. The expression on the stranger’s face opened up, as if he were anxious to hear more, so Eleanor continued. “You attend morning audience with the monarch, and they grant you hospitality in exchange for useful work, skill sharing, or news. Only a few have requested it in many years,” she added.
They had reached the back sheds, and Eleanor set the basket beside the door, not wishing to invite this stranger in farther. His eyes wandered through the doorway, and Eleanor stepped into the threshold, brushing her hands on her skirts again, keeping his eyes from seeing the reports lying on the table.
“As I said, it is an old custom not much practiced anymore,” Eleanor repeated.
The young man shrugged and returned his blue eyes to her face. They were striking at this close distance, sudden, crisp blue against his olive skin. “My mother spoke fondly enough of the custom,” he continued. “I dare say I shall try.” His face practically tumbled into a smile as he spoke again. “I can’t imagine them saying no for the sheer possibility of a diversion. There must be little to no variance from the day-after-day life in a place like this. It’s such a quaint country.”
By the way he had said it, Eleanor was certain he did not consider this an advantage. She looked away from his face for a brief moment and then returned his casual manner with an icier glare than she had intended.
“You would do well,” she said, “not to mention your opinions while petitioning the queen, I am sure.”
He laughed and took a step away from her. “You are right. I shall remember your advice.” He rubbed the back of his neck, as if remembering he had just passed a sore night.
The breeze caught the wanderer’s cloak just then, lifting a strange, exotic scent into the air. It was a familiar spice, though not one native to Aemogen. Eleanor couldn’t recall the name, but her pulse rose unexpectedly.
“Pardon, for being so direct,” she stated bluntly, feeling done with playing castle gardener. “But, how did you get in? The gardens are closed to visitors at present, and the gates should all be shut.”
He fought back a grin. “Yes, but the walls were so easy to breach. You can’t blame me for trying.” His eyes traveled her face and he held out his hand towards Eleanor as if to take hers. “You may call me Wil,” he said.
Eleanor declined the gesture. She knew her face did not hold the friendliest of expressions. He dropped his hand, untouched.
“A great pleasure, Wil, to have met you,” Eleanor offered instead. “It might be a good idea to
wait
for the gates to open the next time you wish to visit these gardens.”
He acquiesced with a nod of his head, saying nothing.
“Good luck in your petition,” she continued, “and in your journeys.” Eleanor offered this pleasantry, feeling only a tinge of remorse for her sharpness but no more. After all, Aemogen was not a place for wanderers to entertain themselves, and she had work to be about.
As if an understanding had crossed the young man’s mind, he considered Eleanor again, his left hand playing with a black leather string on his right wrist for a moment before his bearing changed. Bowing slightly, stiffly, he offered Eleanor a weighted smile.
“May you have the same,” he said. He turned away, back toward the far western gate.
Eleanor watched his departure. Wil was taller than most Aemogen men, and he was clearly no farm laborer, merchant or miner. The movements of his body were strong, controlled. They were trained.
After reclaiming her papers from the potting shed, Eleanor signaled to her Queen’s Own, the soldier Hastian, who stood, waiting in a blind spot, behind a pillar near a back door of the castle. He stepped quickly towards her, his face ashen, probably from watching his sovereign converse with a stranger he knew nothing about.
“Had I felt worried I would have signaled you, Hastian,” Eleanor said, as he met her along the path. Hastian did not respond, which was no matter. Eleanor knew how to read his silence. “I can see that you intend to speak with Crispin about this breach in protocol,” she said, as he fell into step beside her. “I intend to speak with him as well. I don’t wish to see that happen again.”
Then Eleanor surprised herself by looking again towards the west pathway, now empty.
***
“Did you shake his hand?” Edythe asked.
Edythe was setting Eleanor’s hair in place for the morning audiences. Eleanor had bathed, dressed in a gown of soft green, and sought Edythe out in the records hall to ask for her help. Hastian was stationed outside the tall, arched doors, ensuring the sisters’ privacy.
“Here I am, attempting to study the changes in the Marion constitution, and you keep on about this morning.”
“So, you did take his hand?” Edythe said, ignoring the deflection.
“No,” Eleanor replied and shook her head.
“Don’t move your head.”
“I simply said it was a pleasure to make his acquaintance and wished him luck,” Eleanor said. “Or something of the sort.”
“Hmm.” Edythe was twisting Eleanor’s long braids around each other and pinning them into place. “You do realize you have a maid to do this for you?”
“I like how you do it better.”
Whenever Eleanor particularly cared about her appearance, she asked for Edythe’s help, as her sister had always been graced at anything requiring artistry of the hands. Edythe was, Eleanor thought—feeling the slight tug and pull on her scalp as Edythe bound her copper hair—quick at everything she tried: dancing, recital, riding, calligraphy, music. Her disposition was sun-filled and sweet, and, for good reason, Edythe was the favorite acquaintance of many.
Where Edythe excelled, Eleanor was merely proficient, but she didn’t mind: she had worked for her proficiency. Persistence had taught Eleanor to become a sufficient musician, a sufficient horsewoman, and a sufficient gardener. And, while she was not so outwardly gifted as Edythe, her true talents were manifest in the three things she cared for most: the well-governance of her people, the well-governance of herself, and a determination for knowledge. She gave the same passion to her studies that Edythe threw into life.
“Tell me what he looks like,” Edythe said. “So I’ll know him if he does seek an audience.” Edythe’s voice broke through Eleanor’s thoughts, and she looked up.