The Queen's Gambit: Book One of Imirillia (The Books of Imirillia 1) (15 page)

“What happened?” Wil asked, watching Eleanor intently.

“I’m not altogether sure,” she admitted. “My father didn’t like the idea. The Imirillian Empire was growing in land and in power, and it was a warring nation. For every sweetness that Edith wrote of Shaamil, there were ten stories throughout the land of his conquests and dominance. My father wanted, as had his father before him, a quiet existence away from the eyes of other sovereigns, which meant my marrying an Aemogen. Perhaps he felt that the safer road for me.”

“And what—” Wil paused. “What of the Princess Edith?”

“She died,” Eleanor said, turning to face the ocean. “My mother had written to her for over a year with no reply. The boy would have been ten or eleven then. I remember when my mother heard the news that Edith had died of a fever,” she said, stopping for a moment at the memory.

“I had never seen my mother so despondent. She cried and mourned, begged my father to invite Edith’s son to Ainsley. She wanted to know Basaal’s face. But, father would not make the invitation. He said it was for the best, yet I’ve always wondered if that was a mar on their marriage.” This confession was difficult for Eleanor. “My mother died a few years later.”

Eleanor was reluctant to recall her mother’s sadness. It felt heavy on her chest as it had when, as a child, she could do nothing to make her mother stop crying.

Wil looked down, kicking his boots in the dirt. “That is a sad tale,” he said.

“It is,” Eleanor quietly agreed. “I have always thought of it as a beautiful ghost story: bitter and sweet.”

Wil offered Eleanor a sincere glance. “Perhaps, that is the hazard of loving too deeply.” The wind had picked up, lifting itself off the sea and up the gray cliffs.

“Do you know him?” she finally took the courage to ask.

“Do I know who?” Wil asked.

“Edith’s son, Prince Basaal. Have you met?”

Wil kicked the earth again and looked away from Eleanor.

“We have met,” Wil said, “several times, actually. Though, I cannot say I know him well.”

“Sometimes,” Eleanor confessed, “when going through my mother’s letters, I wonder about him and if—” She shook her head and lifted a shoulder, “
If
.”

Wil cleared his throat. “To be honest,” he said, “and, I mean no disrespect to either of you, I cannot see how he would have pleased you. He’s as selfish and prideful as any of them, the princes of Zarbadast: spoiled, supercilious, arrogant.”

Eleanor blushed, closing her eyes against the coming gale, feeling her hair work itself loose from her braid and fly across her cheeks. “I miss my mother,” she said, filling the space with words to wash away her questions.
“Cha bhi fios aire math an tobair gus an tràigh e,”
Eleanor said softly in an old Aemogen tongue.

“Meaning?” Wil inquired.

“The value of the well is not known until it goes dry.”

Wil’s face absorbed the sadness of her statement.

They headed back towards camp as evening settled, keeping to their own thoughts, walking side by side on the windblown trail. Allowing herself a rare indulgence, Eleanor thought more of her mother than she had in years: the small movements, the way her eyes would wait for Eleanor to understand, the way she teased Eleanor out of unreason.

At one point, Wil spoke. “I feel as if you are conversing with your dead,” he said. “Your sobriety is too weighty for this world.” She didn’t answer, but his comment made the silence between them comfortable.

They found the camp content: fires built, the men sitting in groups talking, the horses cared for, and the work of the day finished. Crispin was leading a conversation by one of the fires. Aedon was sitting quietly, reviewing the reports that Doughlas must have brought down from Ainsley. Eleanor watched the men for a moment and then turned to Wil, who was still standing at her side.

“Just wait until Old Ainsley fen,” she said.

“What is at Old Ainsley fen?” Wil asked, curious.

“That is where Aemogen keeps all her ghosts.”

***

The sea, Wil found, suited him. Late, after the others had gone off to sleep, he took himself down towards the cliffs and wrapped himself inside his cloak on the lee edge of a stone. Sleep was kind, as if the wind coming off the sea had swept his dreams away before they could rattle him awake. Come morning, he was refreshed.

That had not happened for a long time.

***

A few days later, the company set out in the delicate, gray morning. Since their conversation on the cliffs, Wil and Eleanor’s days had twined together more than before, so it did not seem strange for Wil to be riding near Eleanor.

“Why is this fen called Old Ainsley?” he asked. Eleanor turned her face towards Wil, the air off the sea claiming the loose strands of her hair.

“The original capital of Aemogen was Old Ainsley fen,” she explained. “The remains of the old fortress and castle are still there.”

“Why did the capital move north?”

“Aemogen grew,” she said. “The winters along the coast are harsh and cold. Up north has a far better climate all the year round. Ainsley, officially named New Ainsley, is a more central position: closer to the pass and easier to reach by all the fens.”

“Ah,” Wil said. “Admittedly, I was hoping for a tale less pedestrian.”

“To be fair, there is more of a tale,” Eleanor said as she smiled.

“We have a way yet,” Wil shrugged. “Tell me the story.”

“I think not,” Eleanor replied. “It’s a tale you should hear for the first time at the Barrows of Ainse and, probably at night.”

“
The
Barrows of Ainse,
” Wil said, mimicking Eleanor’s accent.

“Laugh at me, Traveler,” she warned, “and you’ll get no tale.”

Wil did laugh, pleasantly.

The days passed quickly and Wil learned from Crispin the unique history of the Old Ainsley fen.

“There was no fen there twenty years ago,” Crispin told Wil matter-of-factly. “Thayne, the current fen lord, was a Marion nobleman who grew disenchanted with his own country and the aristocracy there. He asked our king if he, and any willing tenants and friends, might establish a humble fen in Aemogen, an artisanal fen, where metalwork, woodwork, and the like, could be produced for the benefit of the entire country. Some very skilled craftsmen came with Thayne,” Crispin explained. “So, the King gave them the lands of Old Ainsley, which no one else had wanted to occupy.”

“Can I ask why, or do I have to wait for the queen’s story?” Wil asked.

“Ah,” Crispin said and shook his head. “She wants to tell you at the Barrows of Ainse?”

“Yes. At night or something just as superstitious,” Wil said.

Crispin smiled. “It’s worth the wait.”

***

It was late the next night when the company arrived at Old Ainsley fen. Wil dismounted, passing Hegleh off to one of the men taking their horses to the stables, and scrutinized his surroundings.

The fen hall was quite large and different from any other he had yet seen. It was built after the traditions of Marion craftsmanship: with arches, careful stonework, and a wooden balustrade winding around a balcony on the second story. Eleanor had dismounted quickly and embraced a man Wil assumed to be Thayne. It was the most tender encounter he had yet seen between the queen and a fen lord. Their love for one another was evident.

The Marion aristocrat was simply, but elegantly, dressed. His beautifully drawn face leant itself to his long gray hair, pulled back and tied with a ribbon. Thayne knew almost all the company by name and saw to it the soldiers were settled as he invited the council indoors.

Thayne and Aedon also exchanged a hearty embrace, greeting each other with familiarity and respect. Wil had never seen Aedon so animated, and he felt the intruder as he followed behind Crispin. After Thayne exchanged a greeting with the captain of the guard, he finally noticed Wil.

“Thayne of Allarstam,” he introduced himself to Wil with a curious look on his face.

“Wil Traveler,” Wil said as he shook the fen lord’s hand.

“Yes, I had heard,” Thayne responded, about to usher Wil in the door when he paused, his eyes narrowing in question. “Have we met?” he asked Wil. “You strike me as familiar.” Thayne’s tone was pleasant, but Wil stiffened.

“It’s not likely we’ve ever met,” Wil said. “I have spent most of my days in the northern countries, far from Aemogen.”

Thayne gave a peculiar smile but shrugged and motioned for Wil to join the company in the beautifully furnished room.

“I have a warm dinner for every man,” he said, once he had stepped into the room, pleased to be playing host. Then Thayne stepped up behind Eleanor and set his hands on her shoulders. “For you,” he said, “I have two warm dinners.”

***

As the company ate, they spoke with Thayne about the doings of the fen. The conversation surprised Wil, as it was much more personal and open than he had seen with the other fen lords. After they had eaten, Thayne spoke.

“I know you are all tired, and so I will not keep you discussing politics. I assume tomorrow you will begin your training?” he asked, looking expectantly at the faces before him.

“Yes,” Gaulter Alden replied, outlining their visit.

“Good, good,” Thayne said cooperatively. “You will find our men ready and efficient. If I have any questions, I will ask them come morning.” Thayne turned towards Eleanor. “There is one item I would be most eager to speak with Your Majesty concerning, something the entire council should hear. Perhaps it can wait until tomorrow, after evening meal?”

“That would be fine,” Eleanor answered. “We usually have a council meeting to start the day, but we never do things here at Old Ainsley like we do everywhere else, do we?”

“Indeed, no, My Lady,” Thayne said. “No need to take us by the hand at Old Ainsley. Here, you must enjoy your stay.”

Seeing as how they had rested well at the fortress of Anoir, Crispin spoke to Eleanor about hiking to the Barrows of Ainse that night.

“We could all do with a good story,” Crispin said. “And Wil has been as impatient as a hornet to hear the tale.”

Wil, who was sitting at a table nearby, talking to Gaulter Alden, guffawed in response. But, when Eleanor appeared inclined to accept the idea, he grabbed his cloak, following the rest of them away from the Old Ainsley fen on the coast and up towards the barrows.

“These were the old burial mounds of the Aemogen royal families for hundreds of years,” Crispin whispered to Wil as they climbed the strange landscape of hundreds if not thousands of mounds, piled around and atop one another. “The markers have long since been erased so, there’s no telling who is beneath you at any given moment.”

“They say,” Crispin continued in a low voice, “that you can see the ghosts of Aemogen on still nights, when all is unearthly and quiet. They also say Eleanor has seen them, but she’s never spoken of it.”

The prick of this supernatural thought caused Wil to shiver, and he socked Crispin in the arm as a way of dissipating the unsettling atmosphere. The captain hit him in return, stifling his laughter and receiving a “Shh!” from someone behind them.

“You’re not going to convince me of shades and haunts,” Wil whispered to his friend. “I don’t believe in them.”

“What, then, do you do with your dead?” Crispin asked in all seriousness. The image of his brother caught in Wil’s mind, and even in the darkness, he could almost feel the sun against his back as he had when kneeling alone over his brother’s open grave, having prepared Emaad’s body for his journey into the afterworld.

“We send them on,” he finally responded to Crispin’s question. “They do not linger in this world.”

Aedon and Eleanor, who had led the small company, stopped in the middle of the barrows and sat down. The soldiers waited, almost reverently. Aside from the spring ceremony, and the singing before they’d left on the battle run, this was as close a moment to religious ritual as Wil had seen in Aemogen.

Wil settled himself at the edge of the company, wrapping his black cloak around his shoulders and pulling it tight. The evening felt surprisingly cold for summer, and his soul began to lean towards the melancholy of the place. Ahead, in the dark, they could hear the waves of the sea, crashing against the cliffs, and withdrawing. Then, as if crying in their defeat, they would rush once more, breaking into spray and air before they fell back again.

Wil could feel someone settle in behind him, and he turned, expecting Crispin. But, no one was there, just the empty darkness over the rippled graves of Old Ainsley. Feeling the grip of the unknown he turned slowly forward, training his eyes on the queen, and his mind away from the barrows at his back. Eleanor waited until the noise of rustling stopped, and then, as if it were a ceremonial part of telling the tale, she unwound her braids until her hair hung long before her shoulders.

“Seven hundred years ago,” she began softly, “when the Old Ainsley towers were tall above the cliffs of Taise, and the Aemogens had fought this wild and unknown land into a calmer place, Queen Ainorra Breagha ruled in confidence over her people. She knew the wealth of Aemogen: the depth of the land, the faithfulness of the seasons, and the strength of the mountains.