The Queen's Gambit: Book One of Imirillia (The Books of Imirillia 1) (11 page)

“So, beginning with the first, every seventh mark is a summary of the text?” Eleanor knit her eyebrows.

“Yes,” Wil said, leaning against the table. “I believe that scholars in Zarbadast first translate the Seven Marks, as they are called, and then return to fill in the remaining text as time allows. Many texts are found only in their Seven Mark form. And, it makes the work of translating the remaining marks faster because you have an idea of what will come.”

“Then, that is what we’ll do,” she said.

It was not long before they had developed a system. Wil would read a mark aloud once, and Eleanor would sit, ready, with a quill in hand. They would work out every line, until the entire mark was translated, then they would review each word, until Eleanor was satisfied that it represented the text authentically in her own language.

Some evenings, Wil would read a mark in Imirillian, and Eleanor would ask him to continue on, listening to his pronunciations.

One night, Wil read, “
All men are lost in their wandering, are lost in their sleep, lost to those they love, lost in their country, lost in their tongue, until they find in themselves honor
.
Then, no land is unknown, no sleep is but sweet, no stranger unloved, no language misunderstood, no love deemed unworthy. He who has honor has found himself forever and, as consequence, allows all others to be found
.”

Eleanor moved her finger across the tabletop, an idiosyncrasy he’d noticed before. “It’s a beautiful thought,” she said, “that freeing oneself allows others to be free.”

Wil nodded, leaning back, away from the scroll. It was late, and the shadows in the room were reminding Wil of his exhaustion. He was having a hard time concentrating on, let alone appreciating, the nuances of holy scripture.

“From the text,” Eleanor leaned towards him, “I assume that honor overshadows all other virtues.”

“Yes,” Wil said. “Honor is the ultimate way to transcendence.”

Eleanor sat still, looking intent, as if expecting him to continue. Bringing his right hand to his eyes, Wil rubbed them a moment before obliging. “Honor of self, family, country, the seven stars—it creates expectations, codes, the way you are mandated to live your life. It’s encouraged from a young age, this finding what honor means and what it will require of you in your life.” Wil yawned as he leaned his head forward, resting his eyes and wishing for sleep.

“Did you leave the Imirillian army because of honor?” she asked. “Or did you break your honor by desertion? Or both?”

Wil snapped his head up. “I did not desert.”

“You left,” Eleanor said as if she would not retreat.

Wil clenched his fist, causing a string of pops. He was agitated with Eleanor now.

“
There are not two directions, neither are there four; all direction is infinite
,” Wil answered her with a line of text they had translated the night before. “Life is not so simple, Your Majesty. It’s not just a matter of one way or the other.”

“
Life may be unknowable, but self is not
,” Eleanor replied with an Imirillian quote of her own.

“Seven stars, you are difficult!” Wil threw his hands up. “If you need an answer, then, no, I cannot fully reconcile honor to myself and honor to my country. It’s a line I endeavor to understand.”

“Are they not the same?”

“Are they?” Wil brought his hands down on the table with a slap and stood. “Forgive me, Your Majesty, I believe I am past being useful to you. May I retire?”

“Of course,” Eleanor said, appearing surprised, yet polite. “Thank you for your work.”

He shifted on his feet, but, seeing that Eleanor had gone back to translation, Wil withdrew. Hastian was sitting by the door of the small antechamber. He stood sleepily and saluted as Wil let himself out.

Chapter Eight

Wil had just removed his boots, when a knock shook the door. He groaned as Crispin showed himself in. It had been a week since he had walked out of Queen Eleanor’s chamber, tired and raw. They had continued their translations, but the conversation was now negligible. Wil was relieved, and unsettled.

“I’ve brought the stones, wood clamps, and polishing cloths,” Crispin said. “Did you get the buckets?”

“Yes,” Wil said as he closed his eyes and draped his arm across his face. “They’re in the corner.”

“Can’t get lazy now, Wil. We leave tomorrow. Get up,” Crispin added. “Your sword could use some attention.” Crispin settled against the wall by Wil’s bed and set his supplies next to him.

“I was hoping you wouldn’t be back so soon,” Wil answered. He forced himself into a sitting position and raised his eyebrows. “Doesn’t anyone in Aemogen sleep?”

Crispin laughed. “Sure we do. And you’ll be happy to know that Eleanor sent a message: there will be no translation tonight.”

Wil raised his fist in triumph and reached for his sword. A rag hit him in the face.

“Let’s get to it,” Crispin said, motioning towards a stone and clamp he’d left at Wil’s bedside. “Steady it with your feet there.” The two soldiers set about sharpening and polishing their blades. Crispin taught Wil the Aemogen technique. It took longer than he was accustomed to, but left a beautiful edge. He soon moved on to his smaller pieces of weaponry.

“Tell me,” Wil said as he looked up from his knife. “Hastian, the soldier who is always following the queen, why does he not share the detail with the other men of the castle guard?”

“Hastian is the Queen’s Own,” Crispin said. “He’s not attached to the palace guard.”

“You operate separately from him then?”

“No.” Crispin offered a confused look. “We operate in tandem: he’s the Queen’s Own, and we’re the castle guard.”

“Do you envy him his position as Queen’s Own?” Wil pressed.

Crispin tossed his rag away and looked at Wil with an expression near impatience that gave way to a smile. “What is it that you hope to hear, Wil?” he asked. “I have no envy of Hastian, and neither does he of me. We work together, with every soldier of Aemogen, to do our jobs. That is all. There’s no malice among any of us here.”

As he eyed Crispin skeptically, Wil knew that his expression lingered between admiration and incredulity. “I have seen more corruption in a country tavern than what appears to be in the court of Ainsley.”

“Three cheers to that,” was all Crispin responded. They continued their work in silence.

Wil finished before Crispin and set his weapons aside, lying on his back and thinking of the day. Tomorrow they would leave to tour the country, calling out the men, training them, and counting their numbers. Wil had unsuccessfully presented surrender as an option multiple times. But, the entire council was against it, saying they would not make a decision until they had completed the battle run. Wil was sick to death of waiting and thinking. Another three months of it would be tiresome.

“Tell me of your family,” Crispin said, breaking the silence. “They’re noble, from what you’ve said. Is there much camaraderie, much love there?”

Wil cleared his throat and continued to look up towards the ceiling above him as he answered. “It depends on the day. We’re like any other family: love, expectation, disappointment, misunderstanding, mistrust, brotherhood, commitment, independence, grief.”

Crispin grinned. “It’s little wonder the queen calls you jaded.”

Releasing a short laugh, Will shifted so that he could see Crispin’s face. “What about you?”

The young captain covered his thoughts with a smile and shrugged. “Not much to know,” he said. “For almost as long as I can remember, I was an orphan down in Calafort, the port city of the south. It wasn’t long before I struck out for adventure and ended up stealing from half the fens of Aemogen.”

“Really?” Wil’s interest piqued, and he propped himself higher against the pillow so he could see Crispin’s face. “You’re the first Aemogen criminal I’ve met—well, the first that wasn’t a child—and you’re a reformed one at that. How disappointing,” he added. “But go on, let’s hear the tale.”

“They brought me before the king, Eleanor’s father,” Crispin said. “And, when it came time for an officer, no one would step forward on my behalf, for I had neither kin nor sympathizer. In Aemogen, we don’t view those who break the law lightly.”

“So I’ve seen,” Wil granted.

“No one would stand for me,” Crispin continued, his voice earnest. “After what felt like an age to my young mind, the king stood, looked at me for a long moment, then left his throne and came to stand at my side, his arm around my shoulders. Turning to the council, he pled on my behalf. The parole he offered? I would serve and work in the palace, and he would train me up to a profession. How could the council refuse?”

“How old were you at the time?” Wil asked.

“Twelve years,” Crispin said. “The King was as good as his word, and I was accepted into his house. Eleanor and Edythe became as sisters, and the king, well, he educated me, cared for me, trained me in a profession, and treated me as dear as any son by a father.”

“He sounds like he was a good king,” Wil said.

“He was a good man.” Crispin shrugged, trying to conceal his emotions. “When you’re a good man, being a good king follows naturally.”

Wil had to bite his tongue, tracing the lines of the ceiling instead. He didn’t wish to disrespect Crispin by disagreeing, yet he knew that not every good king was a good man, neither was every good man a fair king. It was not such a simple balance.

Yet, later, far into the night, when Wil could not sleep, he replayed this conversation in his head.

***

The wind was relentless, cutting its teeth against the sandstone city, blowing it into dust. Wil covered his eyes, trying to see through the penetrating curtain of sand. His brother Emaad stood, serene and content, looking into the storm with an unaffected air. He turned toward Wil.

“You are fighting hard against the wind,” Emaad said. His words were solid and stayed in place, as if he were speaking them on a calm spring morning.

“I can’t look to you,” Wil cried, but the wind ripped the words from his lips and sand filled his mouth.

“You must stop,” Emaad said.

“I don’t understand!” Wil yelled, leaning harder against the wind, the sound of it tearing at his ears. He covered his face with both arms, trying to escape the biting grains of sand.

“Stop!” Emaad commanded, and Wil lowered his arms. The wind was gone now. The blue folds of his brother’s tunic moved in a pleasant breeze. His brother’s eyes were gentle.

“How did you stop it?” Wil asked, but Emaad did not answer. “How did you stop it?” Wil tried again.

Emaad began to open his mouth, but his eyes went blank, and his head toppled to the sand. Wil stared in terror at his brother’s headless corpse, and, when Emaad’s head rolled against his boot, he began to scream.

***

“Wil!” someone called out, and he opened his eyes.

Crispin was shaking him. Wil jumped, throwing Crispin toward the door. The captain groaned as his head smashed against the wood.

“Ow! Come off it, Wil!” Crispin rubbed his head as he bit his lower lip. “I’ve come to wake you, not slit your throat.”

Wil was standing, breathless, his hands shaking. He collapsed onto the bed and put his face in his hands. “You startled me.”

“You were screaming,” Crispin answered with concern. “Put on a shirt and come quickly.”

“Where?”

“The battlements above the south gate.”

Wil threw his black shirt over his chest and followed Crispin down the hallway of the travelers’ house, the stones cold under his bare feet.

The night was not dark, but the shadows seemed fathomless. He saw his brother’s face again and again and again. Wil shook his head, trying to loosen the images of his dreams. He took several deep breaths, and when they broke out into the open air, he gazed upward at the gibbous moon.

They left the travelers’ house and walked up the tower stairs with quick steps. Wil could see other figures, gathering along the south battlement. The men of Eleanor’s council, the fen lords, their wives, staff, maids, gardeners, even the messenger boys—all gathered quietly, still in their nightclothes. Edythe and Blaike were among them, and Crispin pulled Wil through, to the inner circle beside the princess, and motioned for Wil to look down at Ainsley stair.

It was filled with ghosts.

Wil started, his brother’s face still haunting his mind. He looked again—they were women, silent, still, phantomlike in their nightdresses. The crowd on the battlement parted, and Eleanor appeared, wearing a long, white nightgown, her hair loose down her back. Hastian, as always, was only a few steps behind her.

Eleanor took her place in the center of the observers and looked down over the battlements. Crispin lifted his hands briefly and put them together. A spark lit, only for a moment, and as if responding to his signal, lights began to appear among the people gathered on the stairs. Each woman held a candle. Wil, standing directly to Eleanor’s right, watched, captivated. In the soft illumination, he could see that men were flanking the stairs with somber expressions.

Wil looked towards Eleanor just as the women began to sing. Their words were unrecognizable, but the sentiment was pure. It was a mournful tune, steeped in old beauty. The chorus of voices rang up all the stairs, for all of Ainsley had turned out to sing for their queen.

Wil’s heart began to slow, the memory of his dream easing through the clear melody. He gave himself to the music. As if in response, the melody split into perfect harmony, continuing several minutes until, as they sang the final note, the candles went out.

The women descended the stairs, the moonlight almost tricking Wil into thinking they were a fountain of water, pouring down from the gates of Ainsley Castle and flooding the city below. He wanted to ask what the significance of the ritual was, but the mood was heavy, and people began to leave the battlements.

“We follow the queen,” Crispin said at his back. As Eleanor passed, Edythe at her side, Wil followed, with the other members of the war council, in silence. Few torches were lit in the castle, casting strange patterns onto the walls.

When Wil saw that Gaulter Alden wore only his stocking feet, like the rest of them, he threw a grin at Crispin, who didn’t acknowledge that he saw it. Eleanor led them up the stairs and through the large halls to her personal apartments. Edythe left her there, whispering something in her sister’s ear before disappearing.

The queen invited her council in with a gesture, her eyes pausing on Wil with a flicker of consideration. A fire lit the room, and warm drinks were waiting. Eleanor sat in a beautiful chair of gold and soft blue, facing the hearth. The other men took their seats on the settees, or on other chairs, set about the fire as well. Aedon remained standing, passing warm mugs around the loose circle. Wil set himself on a soft rug before the flames, leaning against the arm of the settee.

“They sang with the spirit of Ainorra Breagha,” Gaulter Alden said.

There was a brief murmur as the men nodded. Wil wanted to ask who Ainorra Breagha was, but he didn’t. Aedon, looking rather rumpled and sleep-worn, sat near the queen, who was leaning against her elbow, massaging her temple with her fingers and staring at the fire.

It was as strange as it was beautiful, this intimate exchange of company with no words, everyone in—of all absurd things—their nightclothes. Wil watched Eleanor from the corner of his eye. Having never seen her in white, let alone in anything so subtle and timeless and, well—he didn’t know. Her copper hair, always bound in braids, was now loose and long. The others paid no heed to her soft beauty, but Wil struggled to keep his eyes away. She did not appear to notice, watching the flames licking the firewood, snapping and rising. Wil told himself he should do the same, but he had little success.

After an hour, the men began to dismiss themselves, wordlessly, one by one. As each left, he paused before the queen and took her hand. She would smile and send him on without speaking. Wil turned towards the fire, though he knew it was time to go, and leaned his head back, sighing, preparing to get up and return to bed.

When Crispin roused himself a few moments afterward, pulling the dozing Wil along, Eleanor had already withdrawn to her bedchamber. They returned to the travelers’ house to sleep the remaining hours of night.