The Queen's Gambit: Book One of Imirillia (The Books of Imirillia 1) (19 page)

Hastian sat quietly in the pool, listening to Crispin with a self-conscious look on his face.

Wil ran his hand through his hair, laughing at an offhand comment Crispin then made about Duncan, but really thinking about Eleanor and her Queen’s Own.

Not long after Hastian had arrived, Aedon excused himself, drying off as best he could before slipping back into his clothes and heading down the mountain. Wil was tired and pulled himself partway out of the water, so his chest and back could dry in the night air.

“You heading out Wil?” Crispin asked.

“Yes. I’m ready for sleep,” he said. “We leave early.”

Crispin nodded. “I’ll go down with you.”

The woods were still, and the crescent moon small, making the path difficult to see in the dark, but Crispin knew the way well enough. Wil was content to follow, enjoying his loose muscles and less tired bones.

A noise in the brush caused Crispin to pause a moment. “Just a deer, I suspect,” he said.

Wil was remembering their conversations at the spring, and he finally spoke into the silence of the summer night. “Does Aedon truly fancy the queen?” he asked.

“I am not altogether certain if it’s anything beyond the affection of a dear friend,” Crispin answered. “They are very close and have relied on each other a great deal. But she is young,” Crispin said, more to himself than to Wil. “And, although Eleanor has only been on the throne for little more than five years, she is wise enough to know that much must be considered in her choice of husband: politics as well as love and respect.”

“Who would she choose from?” Wil asked, curious.

“The fen lord’s have sons,” Crispin said, his voice drifting through a yawn. “There are also councillors, wealthy merchants, and seed bringers who carry a certain weight. But, most likely, it would be a titled man with an understanding of how leadership and politics work in Aemogen.”

“So, Aedon would likely not be considered.”

“Aedon is titled, he’s just quiet about it,” Crispin said as they broke out of the woods into the field near the fen hall. “He’s a very eligible option, I would say. Frankly, I don’t know if Eleanor could choose better.”

When they reached the fen hall, Crispin excused himself to go ask a question of one of his men, and Wil entered the building alone. Gaulter Alden was still up, speaking with Aedon about trade. Wil was also surprised to see Eleanor, sitting on the opposite side of the room, writing with the light of several candles. Seeing her at work, oblivious to the conversation and jokes about her marriage, Wil felt guilt tinge his mind. He looked away and was about to join Gaulter Alden and Aedon, when Eleanor called his name.

“Do you have a moment?” she asked.

He nodded, noting that Aedon had looked up briefly before continuing his conversation with Gaulter Alden.

“Remember those loose pieces of paper I had saved to translate during the battle run?” she asked.

Wil admitted that he did not.

“Well, I have finally pulled them out,” she said. “Come tell me what you think.”

He sat down next to Eleanor, hesitantly.

“Forgive me, Wil, I didn’t see how tired you were,” Eleanor said sincerely as she looked at his reluctant expression. “This can wait. I know you’ve had a long day.”

“No,” Wil said, turning towards Eleanor, settling his shoulder against the wall. “My body is tired, but my mind is not.”

Eleanor smiled appreciatively. “I was finding this text very challenging,” she said. “It’s a poem by the northern philosopher Taimzaeed—”

They worked on Eleanor’s translation together, far into the night. Hastian had returned, standing silently on the far side of the room. Gaulter Alden and Aedon retired soon after Hastian had come, leaving Eleanor and Wil alone with their translations. Just as one of them would tire, the other would figure out a difficult word or finish a particularly interesting line, urging the other to continue.

“Taimzaeed’s philosophies are interesting because he was rejected quite forcefully by the scholars in Zarbadast until two centuries after he had died,” Wil told Eleanor.

“Really?” Eleanor was surprised. “But, his philosophy is so clearly in line with what I have read in the Second Scroll.”

“Yes, but his other works advocated social reforms that were not trusted at the time,” Wil replied. He then thought about what she had just said. “I didn’t realize you had begun reading the Second Scroll.”

“I brought it along and have read most nights.” Eleanor smiled. “Especially after you teased me for not having read the Seven Scrolls.” She paused and tapped her finger once on the table. “Are the archives of Zarbadast very great?”

Wil felt his heart miss a beat, but he shook his head. “I’m not the person to ask,” he admitted. “My father’s ambition has more to do with expanding Imirillia’s borders than with digging through the scholarly archives of Zarbadast.”

Eleanor nodded and turned back to a translated verse of Taimzaeed’s poetry. Her penchant for study was—of all things—a bit endearing to Wil. She seemed taken with a particular poem, very famous, that Wil had even studied as a boy. The luminosity created by Eleanor’s voice, as she read aloud, crowded out any shadows in Wil’s chest, save those cast by her wonder.

I once believed the stars were old souls,

Passed away, yet scintillating in their rest,

But now, I see they are but the nursery

Of the Illuminating God.

And at the birth of each man

Therein is placed a star beside his heart,

And while the heart gives its beat to the body,

So the star gives its light to the soul.

“Hmm,” he said and smiled, feeling he had experienced something fresh, something new, as if the tiredness of the late night were suspended by her articulation. “What about that verse do you love so much?” he asked.

“It’s only—” Eleanor let a long, satisfied sound escape with a sigh. “The imagery is beautiful, and although I don’t believe Taimzaeed means a
literal
interpretation—admittedly, I could be wrong—it’s a wonderful idea: each human being endowed with a star to guide one’s soul.”

“So that each birth is an increase of light—” Wil said.

“And each death, a star extinguished.”

When Wil did not answer Eleanor with words, she continued. “My father held the value of an individual as paramount in making decisions for the whole,” she explained. “He believed in the influence of a man or a woman for good or ill: that one soul could make a great difference. I believe he would have liked this verse.”

Wil picked up an unlit candle and set the wick alight in the candle that had almost burned its course. “You don’t mention him often,” Wil said.

“I think of him.”

“What do you think he would say to you now?” Wil asked.

“He would counsel a clear mind. He would tell me that things work out.” Eleanor set her mouth in a straight line. “He would say that I should keep pressing my mind to the problem until it gives way.”

“For your sake,” Wil said as he pressed his finger into a drop of melted wax, “I hope it does.”

***

When Eleanor went to her room, she lit a candle, changed into her nightdress, and lay on her bed, rereading the first translations she had done with Wil back in Ainsley. She reread the words, remembering hearing Wil speak Imirillian for the first time—it was a language that moved her.

“
What has undone me is not the sweeping sands that would blow my soul across the earth, nor is it the endless heat and blinding desert; it is crashing against the high mountain, which will not bend to my will, but rather, break me on turrets no man can fight.”

Eleanor reread the words again. She sat up and spoke the line aloud. “It is crashing against the high mountain, which will not bend to my will, but rather, break me on turrets no man can fight.”

Against turrets no man can fight
.

Eleanor jumped up and ran to the door. Hastian, sleeping on a cot outside, sat up.

“I need Aedon,” Eleanor whispered.

Hastian went.

Eleanor returned to her room. She took a breath and sat down, mapping out what she knew of the old mines, long abandoned now, that twisted inside the walls of the pass between Aemogen and Marion.

Chapter Fourteen

When Wil woke, the clouds were heavy. He ate breakfast with the men—some form of porridge they had had most days—and prepared himself to leave. As he was entering the stable to prepare Hegleh, he encountered Doughlas, leading his own horse out in haste, a look of excitement on his face.

“Are you off?” Wil asked, moving to the side of the stable door to let Doughlas pass.

“I am.”

“A letter for Edythe I presume?” Wil said.

“I ride not to Ainsley,” Doughlas replied, looking hurried. His saddlebags secured, he mounted. Then, glancing at Wil briefly, Doughlas urged his horse forward, riding fast towards the west.

Later, as the company rode out, Aedon and Crispin separated themselves out, speaking in furtive conversation. Wil pulled his horse back, not wanting to overhear anything they had to say if it was not intended for his ears.

Gaulter Alden told the company he thought a storm would break before they could set up camp and that they should look for a place amongst the trees long before dark. In late afternoon, as the wind picked up and the clouds were petulant and suffocating, they came across a small cottage with a large shed, a barn, and a few other outbuildings.

The couple who lived there, an older man and his wife, were astonished at the request to host the queen and her company for the night. They hurried about, preparing space for the soldiers and making accommodations for the queen and her senior councillors inside the cottage. They even gave up their room in the garret for Eleanor’s comfort.

Rain hit as predicted. It poured straight from the low-hanging clouds, until just before dark, when the gales began to sweep over the hills, throwing it hard in every direction.

Most of the soldiers had settled comfortably in the sheds, and Eleanor, with her council, sat around the small hearth, eating a humble meal prepared by the farm wife. A warm fire served well the entire evening as they sat, gathered in conversation. Gaulter Alden reminisced about the storms of his youth along the south coast. Aedon spoke of High Forest fen to the northwest, his own home.

“The gales were not as wild and encompassing as they are in the south,” Aedon explained. “But, the lightning is what caused the most fear, for it crashed down on stone and pine and men. One of my boyhood friends was hit; he died instantly.”

The tales continued. Eleanor listened to the stories, content to be silent.

“I’ll not argue with all of you,” Crispin said at some point. “But, off the coast of Calafort, when the waves peak higher than Ainsley Castle, and there you are, strapped to a small ship, with wind, lightning, the force of all heaven tossing you towards the ocean. In that moment,” he said and half laughed, “you knew whether you were a man or not.”

“And if you never felt fear of the storm,” Eleanor added, resting her chin on her knees, which were tucked up under her skirts, “but rather dreaded the mess come morning, you knew you were a woman.”

They laughed, Gaulter Alden especially, who, as Eleanor looked at him, seemed to be entertaining reminiscences of his late wife, his face set in the wistful expression that he only had when he spoke of Elaine. And, for a brief moment, Eleanor could see Gaulter Alden for the old man he really was: his cheekbones, having lost their flesh, protruded, and firelight accentuated the angles and wrinkles of his age. Yet, uncomplaining, he was preparing for war. She did not want to ask herself the question of whether he could survive it.

No one spoke for some time, each traveling in their own thoughts. Aedon had looked across the room to where Wil sat, in the corner on a small stool, his back against the wall, his cloak pulled around him, looking as comfortable as the shadows of the fallen night.

“What are your tales, Wil?” he asked, a tone of camaraderie underpinning Aedon’s question.

With the back of his head against the stone of the cottage, Wil shifted his eyes across the small company. “Wind and rain sound like a welcome relief compared to what I dread most on this earth: sand. You sit on a clear day, the merciless sun beating down on your caravan crossing the desert. And, as much as the heat seems unbearable, you press on against the blinding light. Then, sudden and fierce, a wind sent from hell begins to blow in from across the desert, a dark shadow, rolling in on its own evil intent.

“It grows fast,” he continued. “You try to find shelter, but there is none. Your fingers struggle with the lines of a tent, but it hits you faster than you ever thought possible. The grains cover your skin as sand soaks into every crevice and orifice, until you know your eyes have been replaced by filth, your ears stopped up, your tongue coated. You can’t breath—even under a cloth, the sand blows into your throat.

“The wind rages for what seems to be hours, and you find the dunes you stood above shifting underneath your feet until they are around your legs, then around your waist, and you know that no one will find you, until some year in the future, when your bones will be revealed by a happenstance storm, and a merchant’s caravan will look down at your twisted frame and never know your name.”

The company was silent. Wil’s imagery moved across Eleanor’s mind, with the sound of the relentless wind outside for accompaniment. The old farm couple that owned the cottage and had settled down quietly beside their guests, stared, wide-eyed and terrified by Wil’s tale.

“It’s the cheer of your disposition we value most amongst us, Wil,” Aedon remarked. The company laughed, and Wil’s spell was broken. Smiling, Wil accepted Crispin’s invitation to come closer to the fire, sitting in the only open place, which was next to Eleanor.

The tales and stories now leaned toward warm remembrances of holidays and mirth. Although the storm persisted, it was no longer heavy and urgent but rather a beautiful sound against the strong, stone house. Eleanor listened more than she spoke, enjoying the cadence of each voice, the quips, and jokes.

Finally, after listening for most of the night, she said, “The perfect culmination of all these tales would be a winter storm in Ainsley Castle.”

“Yes,” Aedon agreed.

Crispin nodded.

“What is it like?” Wil asked, his eyes on her face, so close; she could feel his breath on her cheek.

Eleanor looked at him then back at the fire. “It’s hard to describe,” she said. “The pantries are well stocked, the lights lit full, and through the windows, layer after layer of perfect white snow falls. It can grow so deep that we don’t leave for days. There are games and entertainments and plays. The windows frost over, the large fireplaces are filled with wood that has been cut and stored for such days. There is a patience about the place, and you are unaffected by worry.” Eleanor could feel brightness in her eyes as she looked again at Wil. “You know every trouble will work itself out.”

The memories stretched in her heart, and Eleanor wished for the peace of it more than for anything else in the world.

“You’ll have to come see it for yourself, Wil,” Crispin offered. “Spend a winter with us in Ainsley. You may get restless,” he added. “But you’d have all winter to learn our secrets—by the time spring comes around, we’ve all blackmailed each other at least once.”

Wil laughed, but Eleanor noticed he did not accept Crispin’s invitation.

Later, Gaulter Alden asked if she would play some Aemogen songs on her flute. Eleanor agreed, playing late into the night. Wil listened to her music intently.

***

Calafort, the port city of Aemogen, was not as large as Wil had imagined, but it was as beautiful: terraced, with buildings and houses easing down towards the substantial port. As a result of having the largest population in all Aemogen, there was more energy there than in all the sleepy fens combined. To Wil, who was long accustomed to the largest cities on the continent, it was a welcome change.

They stayed in a well-appointed house, belonging to a cousin of Eleanor’s father, where the queen’s entire war council was treated with the utmost courtesy. Wil was given his own private room, where he bathed and rested, pleased to have been given a day away from the rigors of training or travel.

Crispin was happy to be home and forced Wil to spend the entire afternoon seeing his native city, where he had scavenged for port jobs, signed up to sail, and ran into bits of trouble, before leaving to explore the rest of Aemogen at age twelve. Sunset found Crispin and Wil at the Calafort docks, standing in the shadows of the silhouetted ships, talking as the water of the port burned orange and red from the setting sun.

“It’s a good community, the sea community,” Crispin said, his expression almost blissful as he sat casually on a barrel. “And I’m glad for the lot that gave me my boyhood here.”

“It seems just the place for it,” Wil agreed as a band of dock boys slipped by, laughing, eyeing Wil’s and Crispin’s weapons as they passed.

“What of your boyhood?” Crispin asked, looking towards Wil, blocking the final, aggressive rays of the day from his eyes. “Did it offer you like adventures?”

Scratching the back of his neck, Wil shrugged. “It was a different place, a different culture,” he said. “But, I managed to get into my own worthy troubles, now and again.”

“I figured as much,” Crispin said and laughed. “But, you never speak of it, so I’ve only to guess.”

“I can’t say I wish to think on it, let alone speak of it right now.”

Crispin let it pass good-naturedly as the sun disappeared to the west, and the port sank into a purple cast.

***

The training was far more extensive in Calafort as there were several hundred men to organize into companies, and weapons—even practice weapons—proved scarce. The company planned to stay in Calafort a full two weeks. Training took place in the fields above the city, and the queen only attended a few hours each day, choosing to spend her time with her father’s cousin and the people of Calafort, who were eager to have an audience with the queen.

One evening, as Wil was seated beside Eleanor at dinner, she leaned towards him. “You’ll be vindicated to hear I visited one of the Calafort dressmakers.”

Meeting her eyes at a close glance, Wil reached for his glass. “Vindicated?” he asked. “How so?”

“You thought I should look the part,” she replied, “when I ride into South Mountain fen and confront Thistle Black.”

Taking a long sip, he moved his glass between his fingers and smiled. “I had assumed the whole of my advice was to go unheeded.” Wil took another sip. Then he continued, his tone having intentional humor. “I’m glad that you’ve seen my enlightened reasoning.”

“Don’t take such credit,” Eleanor replied with an open expression. “I’ve needed new formal gowns for six months, and our best tailors live in Calafort,” she explained. “Edythe mandated the visit long before you did.”

Wil guffawed.

“I admit,” she added, “I’ve considered your advice and am willing to approach Thistle Black head on, as they say.” Eleanor leaned back in her chair. “My cousin has provided me with proof of the mischief he’s been about in Calafort. Thistle Black has been asking around to find a ship’s captain willing to open a smuggling ring with the countries of the North, the main cargo being silver from my mines.”

“I assumed that he would have done that already.” Wil took another drink and settled back into his chair, his shoulder touching hers. Holding his breath a moment, Wil waited to see if Eleanor would shift her position. When she did not, neither did he. “So, were any captains willing?” Wil asked.

Eleanor shook her head. “No. You see,” she said so that no other dinner guests could hear, “there are three groups with extreme loyalty to the crown: the fen riders, the seed bringers, and the maritime men of Calafort. They alone are entrusted with the secrets of how to navigate the port, and the monarchy has always seen that they are well taken care of for their loyalty. Once a year, I am invited to Calafort for a special dinner, and they travel to Ainsley as my guests each fall, when the seas turn wild.”

Wil half laughed, shifting so he could look directly at her. “There is a saying they use in the streets of Zarbadast that would have served Thistle Black: Never bribe a bride-to-be. In your scheming, you should always know whom best to corrupt.”

“Quite,” Eleanor agreed, a line of humor in her face. “Not that I plan on using that advice anytime soon. But, I will keep it in mind.”

“Then, the only question left is what colors did you choose?”

“What colors?” she asked blankly.

“For the dresses.”

“Oh,” Eleanor said, giving him a rare, shy smile. “I decided to beat him at his own game. One gown will be black, trimmed in an abundance of gold.”

“To top his silver of course,” Wil replied.

“Of course. I also commissioned a similar gown in deep red, which will make my hair look rather bright,” Eleanor added sartorially. “But, I indulged nonetheless. There is a third gown that is to be pale gray, studded in silver.”

Wil grinned and lifted his glass. “I toast to your choices. And, for not allowing me to think I had any influence on such an extravagant purchase.”

Eleanor raised her glass, and as she touched it to his, it gave a subtle ring.

“I have one more suggestion to make,” Wil said, clearing his throat with apprehension. “I know that Thayne sent you with several pieces of his wife’s jewelry.”