The Queen's Gambit: Book One of Imirillia (The Books of Imirillia 1) (25 page)

Chapter Eighteen

There were no words to describe the way Edythe collapsed into herself when she heard the news of Blaike’s death. At first, she did not believe Eleanor.

“It could not be, could it Eleanor?” Edythe said again and again. But, the ghost of the life that would not be, the only life she had ever considered, settled behind Edythe’s numb eyes.

“The grief will leave no part of her untouched,” Eleanor tearfully told Aedon, who had come with her to Ainsley. “When she wakes from her numbness, she won’t be able to bear it. I can’t bear it myself.”

It had been raining for three days, and the gardens were content to drown in the late-summer showers. But it was cold in the palace. Ridiculously cold, Eleanor thought as she stood at the window, watching the wet afternoon. She was in her private audience chamber, trying to focus on the numbers before her in the report that Aedon had prepared, but she found little success in these efforts.

It was well over a week past now, and Eleanor knew that it was time for her to decide what the massacre at Common Field meant, politically. The Imirillian raid had come as a warning, so it seemed, a show of their strength. And now, every aspect of their threat was met with utter distrust. Eleanor could not know if their army would wait to invade until their promised date or if, when Eleanor surrendered, Emperor Shaamil would honor his terms. And her scheme, the brazen idea that she’d had in Rye Field fen, confiding it only to the members of her war council and a few miners from High Forest fen, depended on having time—as much time as the High Forest miners could get. She had not told Wil her plans.

Wil.

Eleanor was also plagued with guilt over his disappearance. He should have returned by now, but they had heard nothing.

“Wil should have been here days ago,” Eleanor had told Aedon.

“You don’t suppose he had a run in with the Imirillians before they left Aemogen?” he’d asked.

Eleanor hadn’t answered, rubbing her finger against the wood grains of her desk, her breathing shallow for the hurt around her heart. A fen rider had arrived from the pass three days before, saying that the Imirillians—a small raiding party thirty or forty strong—had left the country but had first encountered the Aemogen guards in the pass. Of all the men killed in the skirmish, fifteen were Eleanor’s soldiers, and five were Imirillian.

The rain came harder now, beating against the glass, sending loud echoes through the tall room. Eleanor set her hand against the cold of the window, the sleeve of her mourning gown sliding down to her elbow. She wore black for Edythe, for Blaike, and for all the dead: one hundred and thirty-four souls. Eleanor left the window, passing the table where her papers and figures lay, and sat down on the soft rugs before the fire, trying to believe the words her father had often spoken, that things would work out.

***

“Eleanor, wake up.”

Eleanor felt a hand on her shoulder. It was dark, except for the light of the low fire. Wil was crouched next to her, resting on the balls of his feet. “You’ve slept away the afternoon,” he said. “And I thought you might prefer to wake up sooner than later.”

“What hour is it?” she asked.

“It’s past sundown, but only just.”

“How long have you been here?” Eleanor asked as she sat up and rubbed her eyes. Then, as her memory caught up with her, she cried, “You’re here!” Eleanor flung her arms around Wil and took a deep breath. “I was so worried you had—” she began. “But, when did you return to Ainsley?”

His fingers were pressed against the back of her neck, tangled in her loose hair. “A few hours ago,” he said softly.

Eleanor pulled away and studied his face. He looked terrible.

“Crispin said you would want to see me,” Wil said, as if to explain his presence. His hand was still on the back of her neck. “But, you were asleep when I came in. It was so quiet that, I admit, I stayed for the solitude.”

“What took you so long to return?” Eleanor asked.

He paused a moment. “To be honest, I could have been here sooner, but I couldn’t face it—not any of it.”

“Sit with me,” Eleanor said as she shifted, moving to the side. Wil settled himself beside her, leaning into the heat of the fire and holding his hands towards the flames.

“Crispin said you’d already heard about the fighting in the pass,” he said. “I didn’t see it, but I did manage to come close to the Imirillian encampment. From what I could gather, this attack was not sanctioned by those leading the conquest,” he explained. “The Imirillians intend to keep their word, or so it seems.”

Eleanor made a dubious sound.

“How have things been here?” Wil asked.

“Awful.”

“And Edythe?”

Eleanor shrugged her shoulders and shook her head.

“Would that the Illuminating God should see me cast into the ocean and damn me forever for the events of these days,” Wil said.

At first, Eleanor thought his desperate words to be an Imirillian expression. But, the pain on his face was cast in such sincerity that she knew they were his own. “Are you faithful to the Imirillian God?” she asked. “I had not thought…”

Wil looked at Eleanor almost blankly, dark circles under his blue eyes. “I’m very devout,” he said. “It’s all the more reason why—” He shook his head once, but did not finish his thought. Turning his palms away from the fire, Wil stared at them. “I cannot remove the blood from these hands.”

Eleanor could see no blood, but his tone was layered, inaccessible. Eleanor lifted her fingers to the side of his face, relieved to ignore her own pain in favor of his. At her touch, he looked towards her, and Eleanor spoke aloud a line from the second scroll: “I am sorrow born, and my days sorrow bound, but I will rise with the Illuminating God and be made holy.”

Wil closed his eyes and covered her fingers with his. “But, can I ever be made holy?” he asked. “You don’t know, Eleanor. You know so little of my life.”

Eleanor did not have an answer. When Wil opened his eyes, all she could see was a mirror of her own grief.

“I had forgotten,” he said. “There was something that I’d determined to give you.” He released Eleanor’s fingers and pulled a small red cloth from his black tunic. “A gift, something I’ve carried with me and would like you to have.” It was with obvious effort that Wil shook past the sadness in his voice.

Eleanor accepted the small item wrapped in a bit of scarlet velvet. “It’s rare to receive a gift like this in Aemogen,” she said.

Wil forced a confused smile. “Are you never given presents?”

“Not often,” Eleanor said as she shook her head. “We offer songs, poems, and remembrances.” The corners of her mouth tugged downward, weighted by sadness. “Or, if you desire to give something very special, you offer a new dance, a bit of music, or, perhaps, the seeds of a flower to plant in a garden.”

“You and your people baffle me.” Wil actually laughed, tired and tight. “I’ve thought your customs odd and strange, but this—” He shrugged. “My people love gifts,” he said. “For every occasion there is something given, something exchanged.”

Eleanor’s fingers pulled at the string that held the folds of velvet together, and, as the knot came loose, she pulled the fabric back. There, set off by the scarlet, lay a golden pendant, a circle the size of a large coin with a beautiful bird of gold rising through a delicate pattern of red stones.

“It’s beautiful,” Eleanor said as she held it up before the firelight. “The intricacy is—” she began, then she realized that she recognized the design, and she raised her eyes to his. “It matches the mark on your arm.”

Wil did not answer.

“I don’t think this is mine to have,” Eleanor said, holding the pendant out to Wil.

He didn’t take it but leaned back against his hands and half shrugged. “It’s meant to be a symbol of my friendship to you, and your people,” he said. “This time in Aemogen has been important to me, and I hope, regardless of the future, to remain your friend.”

Eleanor moved her thumb over the pendant, the stones breaking the smoothness beneath her skin. She closed her hand around the pendant. “And so you shall always be.”

Her words seemed to add pain to his face, and Will appeared haunted as he turned to stare at the fire. The sound of rain had faded, and the room was still. He was sitting so close that she could feel each breath.

“I should go to Edythe now,” Eleanor said, touching her fingers to his arm. “She’ll be glad to know you’re safe.”

***

Edythe was lying on her bed. It was cold, for her window had been left ajar. The call of crickets, come out after the rain, filtered up into her room, and the sweet smell of the rose garden accompanied the sound. Instead of speaking—asking Edythe if she was all right, if she was well—Eleanor lay down behind her sister, putting her arm around Edythe and moving closer. Edythe responded, putting her hand on Eleanor’s. Sighing, Eleanor kissed Edythe’s hair.

It felt unwise to Eleanor, but she let her mind wander: thinking of the impending Imirillian army, waiting to attack, growing larger each day, and suffering the images of death from Common Field fen. Eleanor closed her eyes and pulled Edythe closer.

“Wil has come back,” Eleanor whispered. The words strung out in the darkness, but then Edythe swallowed.

“I am happy for you,” Edythe said.

Eleanor’s cheeks burned, and she didn’t answer.

“Have you found a way to save us?” Edythe said. “Crispin said that you had found a way to save us.”

“There is one way,” Eleanor said. “It’s not a certainty, but it might work.” Night hung close to Eleanor, and she felt tired. “I will tell you more come morning.” Several more minutes passed.

“Edythe,” Eleanor finally said, feeling hesitant to probe her sister’s emotions. “I wanted to tell you that the last time I saw Blaike, he was ever so happy. And, I know Wil spent some time with Blaike while on the battle run. Would you like—” she added, pausing briefly. “Would it do you well if I asked Wil to come and speak with you about him?”

It took a while for Edythe to answer. “I would like that very much,” she finally said.

“I’ll ask him,” Eleanor promised.

Edythe did not respond. Pulling away from her sister, Eleanor lay on her back and stared at the ceiling, wondering if a person could ever carry all they were called to bear in this life. Some pain was so acute that it would cut you, twist you from the inside, until you finally gave into it. And some aches were so overwhelming in nature, that you seemed doomed to drown.

Eleanor kissed her sister on the cheek and quietly left the dark room.

***

The fen lords had arrived in Ainsley to begin their meetings. Wil had not been invited. Left alone, tired of the small, restrictive walls of the travelers’ house, he took his thoughts to the streets of Ainsley. Paved in cobblestones, the streets ran and bent around one other, garnished with houses, tall and thin, intermingled with alleyways and gardens. As Wil studied the city, he thought of the people here and of the slaughter of Common Field, wishing the Aemogens would not choose to fight. But, his arguments for surrender had still gone unheeded, and Eleanor did not wish to discuss it with him.

“Hey, you! Traveler!”

Wil looked over his shoulder. Back where the cobble-covered road twisted up to the market square, a woman was walking with a bucket in hand, its water splashing onto the ground. She greeted him with a smile.

“Do you remember me? We met several months back?” she said, coming to a stop, breathless from her heavy load. Wil thought her face seemed familiar.

“My name’s Aurrey,” she said. “You helped my son, Haide, after his tumble in the market on one of your first days here—months ago now.” She waved her free hand in the air.

The memory crossed Wil’s mind, and he offered a polite smile. “I do remember. How are you?”

“I’ll be better once the little ones are fed, but all is well with us,” Aurrey said. “And you? Why are you wandering Ainsley instead of sitting at supper?”

“The fen lords are meeting into the evening,” he explained. “I will take a meal in my room later.”

“And the battle run,” Aurrey said, stating the words as if he would know her full meaning behind them. “We’ve heard tales of you.”

“Have you now?”

Aurrey flushed. “You’ll have to straighten them out before us, so we know what’s true,” she said. “Come on then.”

“Pardon?”

She blew out of her lips impatiently. “Come on then. You must supper with us. My husband is home, and he enjoys good company.”

“I don’t—” Wil began.

“You do,” Aurrey interrupted. “They say that war is coming. Let’s get some food in you before it does.” She motioned down the street. “Come on then.”

Aurrey continued walking, and Wil followed obediently, offering to carry the water for her. Several streets down, they stopped at a drooping home made of stone with a strong thatch, tucked in between two taller houses.

Aurrey opened the door and welcomed Wil inside as a burst of wails assaulted his ears. Two children were poking and fighting each other, Haide and a girl who was older than he.

“No supper for noise makers!” Aurrey said, rushing to a small hearth, pulling a pot of boiling soup off the flame. The children quieted down, but not before Haide had jabbed his elbow at his sister then looked away, innocently, when she began to cry. The children, bored with their petty fights, turned their eyes on Wil, who stood in the center of the small room, still holding the bucket of water, feeling out of place in this domestic scene. The girl stared, wide-eyed, at Wil’s sword.