The Queen's Gambit: Book One of Imirillia (The Books of Imirillia 1) (8 page)

“I am sorry,” Eleanor said as she smiled. “Will you answer once more? I couldn’t hear, for my councillors were talking.” She glared at Sean, who had been whispering with Aedon. Wil grinned openly at the rebuke.

“Hunting,” the boy said, his small voice breaking against itself, causing the word to come out sounding very young.

“Well,” Eleanor said, and motioned for Crispin to approach the throne. As they spoke quietly, the sound of her voice could be heard, but the words were indiscernible. Crispin disappeared, and Eleanor sat motionless, waiting.

Everyone watched as Eleanor moved her fingers along the wood grain of her throne, her mind apparently miles away from Ainsley. When Crispin returned, he handed Eleanor what looked like a small knife with a belt and a leather case.

She inspected the piece, before saying, “Would you please approach the throne, Godric?”

The boy, eyeing the small knife with envy, walked to Eleanor. When she held the belt and knife out towards the boy, his young hands reached out eagerly, shaking as he took them from his queen. Wil pursed his lips and looked down, touched, certain that to Godric she must appear incomprehensibly wonderful.

“Godric, we do not steal in Aemogen, as you well know,” Eleanor said. “I do not suppose you would like it if your uncle or, perhaps, a cousin came and took this knife from you, without asking permission to borrow it?”

The boy wrapped his fingers around the leather sheath, shaking his head.

“I will give this to you, Godric, as a gift from me, with the understanding that if you thieve in the future, I will have this sent back to Ainsley Castle. Do you understand what I purpose?”

“Yes,” Godric said.

“Good,” Eleanor responded. “I also desire that you approach every member of Faenan fen from whom you have taken property and offer your services for the afternoon, whatever their needs be.” Eleanor looked up around the room. “Do I have an officer to see it done?”

One of the Faenan men—not the uncle, but a shorter, older man—stepped forward.

“I offer myself as officer,” he said. “I’ll see it done and teach him how to use his knife properly.”

“Good.” Eleanor dismissed them.

As the men bowed and turned towards the door, Godric looked back as if he would throw his arms around the queen, giving her an impish smile instead—which Eleanor returned—before running after the men from Faenan.

The petitioner stood again. “A request for—” he hesitated, looking towards Wil, his eyes going wide. “A request for—” the man flushed. “A request, Your Majesty.”

“Yes, Wil Traveler?” Eleanor was curt.

“I have a—” he began.

“A request,” Eleanor interrupted. “Yes, I heard.”

“I come on behalf of Blaike, second seed bringer of Common Field fen, who desires a private audience with,” Wil paused as he bowed with a flourish, “Your Grace.”

Eleanor looked stunned only a moment before a slow smile spread across her mouth. Crispin was laughing and saying something to an embarrassed Edythe. Even the corners of Aedon’s mouth turned upward.

“You may tell Blaike that his request will be granted after the festival and that it would be my pleasure were he to remain in Ainsley as my special guest for several days after.”

Wil nodded. “Thank you, Your Majesty. The third floor of the travelers’ house is greatly indebted to you, as we will be spared any future moaning—”

Crispin laughed harder as Eleanor cut Wil off, inviting him to leave the throne room before all decorum was lost.

Chapter Six

Preparations for the spring festival could be heard all over Ainsley. People from different fens poured into the city, guests of friends, or family. They lifted colorful banners, ribbons, and spring flowers across the streets and above their thresholds. Craftsmen brought their wares, setting up in squares around Ainsley. Wild spring berries, breads, meats, hand crafted cheeses, wood crafts, and stone crafts—all wrapped and prepared for the events of the following day.

Ainsley Castle made its own preparations, for Eleanor would host a grand midday meal for the fen lords, seed bringers, councillors, and their families. There would be games and dancing far into the night on Ceiliuradh, the main square. All was noise and energy. But, inside Eleanor’s apartments, she sat in somber discussion with Aedon.

“Those are the numbers,” Aedon said as he presented Eleanor with a piece of paper. “I have made rough estimates of each fen.”

Eleanor studied the figures Aedon had made. “So, you think we have little chance of pulling together more than twenty-seven hundred men?”

“Not necessarily,” Aedon said. “I admit to being cautious. I didn’t include those over sixty or those younger than fourteen in my estimates. Frankly, it’s all guess work, until we visit the fens themselves.”

His honey colored hair was pushed away from his eyes, cut short by Aemogen standards. It had a slight curl that Eleanor had always liked. Aedon was working out another set of figures, his light blue eyes engaged in his work, when he noticed her watching him.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Eleanor said as she waved his question away. “I was feeling envious of your hair, that’s all.”

Giving her a crooked smile, Aedon was about to reply, when the door opened. Crispin entered, followed by Wil Traveler. Eleanor looked down at the papers on her desk and gathered as much patience as she could muster. Of course Crispin, in his casual trust, would not think Eleanor would object to having Wil in her personal audience chamber.

“Eleanor!” Crispin said, apparently oblivious to Eleanor’s displeasure. Wil, however, was shifting his feet nervously. He had not mistaken the weight of her mood. “Wil has made his decision,” Crispin said eagerly. “He’s to join with us in training.”

What had felt like a weight, a stone, resting in Eleanor’s chest shifted and dropped, getting caught in a new place, and she hesitated to respond. Whether it was relief she felt, at the unexpected aid, or a substantial fear, at the gamble she was taking, Eleanor did not know. The emotions were difficult to decipher.

Aedon had not turned to face Crispin or Wil, but his expression exhibited the same balancing act Eleanor felt in the pit of her stomach. She met his eyes, taking courage from the discernible matching of their emotions.

“And, will you pledge your allegiance and honor to the fidelity of your aid?” she questioned.

Wil’s own struggle was evident. Eleanor watched his right hand tug at the black fabric covering his left forearm. With his voice catching on itself, he spoke.

“I offer my faithful allegiance to you and Aemogen for the duration of this battle run. I will help prepare your men for war, hoping you make the best decision for your people.” Wil shifted and lifted his chin. “I will not hide from you that I do not believe you can defeat any part of the Imirillian army. I would be loath to counsel you try.”

Eleanor sat, unmoving. She was aware of the afternoon sun, burning through her windows, how it claimed patterns and shapes on the rugs of her apartment. She was aware of Wil’s arrow-sharp expression. She was aware that she didn’t want to believe him. Crispin stood silent, and Aedon sat tight as stone. Nothing was spoken, as if the day had fallen asleep around them and forgotten. Eleanor, unsure if she should regret her choice, watched the dust arching gracefully through the air before she spread her palms flat against her desk and looked back at the Imirillian soldier.

“I accept your pledge,” she said. “And I will weigh the value of your counsel only after we know more about our own capabilities and the threat against us.” Eleanor stood. “Thank you, Crispin, Wil. You may go.”

***

Wil’s guards were dismissed. He retreated to his room in the travelers’ house and was relieved when Blaike announced that the evening meal had been canceled in preparation for the festival.

“Would you like anything from the kitchens?” Blaike asked.

Wil did not. He wasn’t hungry, nor did he desire to join Blaike and his friends in their merriment. He lay down on his bed, pulling his arms tight across his chest, watching the light fade from the window before him. Never had he made a decision he felt so strongly to be right; never had he felt such a desire to question the sanity of what he had just done.

Morning came, and Wil woke to find himself still in his clothes, lying on the bed. He had slept soundly. Blaike was already awake and greeted him warmly.

“Edythe sent a fresh change of clothing for you,” he said, pointing to some black garments, hastily thrown over a chair. “She said they will fit well enough and that, after the festival, you shall have more made to your liking. She is thoughtful, Edythe is.”

Wil stood, stretching through the stiffness of the night, and inspected the garments, feeling the knit of the cloth between his fingers. They were similar in style and taste to what he wore already.

“Give Edythe my thanks.” Wil yawned, noticing Blaike had already filled his basin with fresh water. He cleaned himself, shaving with a flat razor, before slipping into the new clothes. They fit well. Wil threw the windows open to let the fresh morning air into the stuffy chamber. It was chilled, cold even, having come down from the northern mountains. As he sat on his bed, pulling his boots on, Wil began to feel the day move in him.

“I assume you’re guiding me through the festival?” Wil asked. He reclined on his bed while Blaike finished his own preparations.

Blaike, who seemed content enough to have spent half his morning whistling, obliged. “It’d be a pleasure. I dare say you will have never seen a spectacle more grand in all your days.”

Wil released a slow smile and looked casually towards the ceiling. Ainsley must be the seed bringer’s height of a sophisticated setting. Wil knew it to be small, provincial, an out-of-the-way life.

As they left the travelers’ house, Wil asked, “Will we stop in the meal hall for breakfast?”

“No,” Blaike said as he shook his head. “Didn’t anyone tell you? We all go without food to be ready for the ceremony.”

“No breakfast?” Wil balked.

“Shh!” Blaike put his finger to his lips, motioning for Wil to be silent. “Everyone is gathered already.”

Wil muttered, following Blaike through the square, believing his decision to miss dinner had been almost as foolish as his coming to this silly pocket of the world in the first place.

The entire Ainsley Rise was filled with people, standing as close as they could, waiting in silence. Even the children were hushed, none speaking or whispering. Before Wil could say that their celebration appeared more funeral than festival, he recognized the quality of the stillness: it was like a prayer. Wil bowed his head. Prayer he understood.

Fifteen men stepped forward into the empty space before the doors of Ainsley Castle. Most of them were old, with drawn eyes and loose skin around their jaws. A few were younger, taller, and less comfortable in their positions. One, looking more boy than sage, was wide-eyed, frightened. Their attire was simple, but clean, their heads bent as they stood in a half circle in the center of the square.

“The seed bringers of each fen,” Blaike whispered.

The doors opened, and Eleanor’s governing council, also consisting of fifteen men, filed out, forming a semicircle opposite the seed bringers. Wil scanned the familiar faces then allowed his eyes to wander. He saw Crispin and several of his soldiers, standing at attention, spaced evenly about the square. Eleanor came through the doorway, followed by Edythe, who carried a graceful pitcher in her hands. The queen wore a gown the color of a spring storm, a garland of white blossoms woven through her copper hair. She moved to the center of the square, facing the seed bringers before her.

As Eleanor bowed her head, each person in the square did the same. Wil lowered his chin, keeping his eyes on her face. They came from her throat slowly, words he did not know and had never heard, full and rich, as if tilted sideways compared to the sounds of the Aemogen language now. It reminded Wil of the affection he felt for the antiquity of Imirillia’s language and verse.

When the queen stopped speaking, she moved towards the seed bringer to her far left. He was the oldest of the fifteen, white-haired, his face given to wrinkles and time. Edythe followed her sister, standing at her left, holding the pitcher towards the queen. Eleanor placed her fingers into the pitcher. Then the seed bringer lifted his hands up before him, a humble expression resting on his face.

As Eleanor pulled her fingers from the pitcher, drops of water caught the morning sun and glistened as they fell to the ground. Eleanor placed her wet fingers in the palms of the old man’s hands, speaking a line Wil couldn’t hear. The man closed his hands around hers and knelt on the ground. She moved on to the next man, repeating the ritual.

As Eleanor moved closer, Wil began to understand her words. She was blessing these men to lead their fens to abundant harvests. As each knelt, the queen moved on. When Eleanor reached the youngest seed bringer, close to her in age, she smiled, performing the ritual with a clear measure of joy. When it came time for him to kneel, he grasped onto her hand for courage.

“The queen’s cousin,” Blaike whispered.

Eleanor returned to the center, the seed bringers still kneeling before her, and spoke another solemn line before approaching again the first seed bringer. Hayden, the historian, carried out a silver tray with fifteen bags made of soft green velvet, the finest fabric Wil had seen in Aemogen.

“They’re seeds,” Blaike explained.

As Eleanor approached each man, she handed him a bag and kissed him on the forehead, lifting him back to his feet. It was so intimate, this ceremony. The people stood in a strict reverence, watching their queen. Wil knew then that he should not be there, that this public moment had a private sanctity, undeserved by the casual outside spectator: thousands belonged to this closeness—one did not.

When Eleanor lifted the final seed bringer—her young cousin—to his feet, the crowd erupted into roaring cheers. Wil covered his ears, grinning at Blaike. Trumpets sounded, and Edythe ran to Eleanor’s side. Shouts flooded out the southern gates and down the steps. Somewhere, musicians began to play as booths sprang into being, and the entire Rise lifted in colorful streamers. As he watched, Wil lost Blaike in the crowd.

Then someone clapped Wil on the shoulder. He turned to see Crispin at his side. Amid the press, Crispin shouted in Wil’s ear. “And now the fun begins. There are more girls in Ainsley right now than I’ll ever have time to flirt with.”

“What’s the day’s schedule?” Wil asked as they pushed through the crowd spilling out of Ainsley Rise onto the stair towards the rest of the city.

“Enjoyment is the day’s schedule!” Crispin waved to a few young ladies, who called back in return. “But, if you want to be more formal about it, the queen has a very grand midday meal, inviting the council, the seed bringers, and any fen lords to be found in the city. Did you receive an invitation?”

“While all that formality goes on inside,” Crispin continued without waiting for a response, “which is not half bad, if that’s where you’re stuck, people outside are playing games, having contests, and handing out rewards, prizes, sweet treats, and the occasional kiss,” Crispin said as he raised his eyebrows and smirked. “The games continue until late afternoon, when Eleanor and her party come to observe, participate, enjoy the spectacle. She takes petitions, mingles with the people, and makes an attempt to win some festival game. When evening falls, everyone is cleared to the edges of the large square,” he said as he pointed down towards the Ceiliuradh on Ainsley stair. “And the dancing begins. It goes hours and hours, with plenty of pretty girls to go around. You’ll not be disappointed.”

“And you are free to enjoy the festival instead of serving at your post?”

“Of course,” Crispin grinned. “My duties of the day were strictly ceremonial.”

“But, will the queen be safe?” Wil asked in surprise.

“She has all of Aemogen watching over her—and Hastian. Of course she’ll be safe,” Crispin said, actually taking his eyes away from the displays of the festival to look at Wil while speaking, a rare touch of seriousness in his manner. “The queen is never safer than with her people.”

“Does she ever dance?” Wil asked as he fought for space in the crowd.

“She used to dance more,” was all Crispin responded, distracted by a wrestling competition.

Not relishing the thought of rolling through the dirt of the square, Wil returned upstream, as it were, to the castle grounds. The Rise was still bursting with people, as he knew the travelers’ house would also be, and everybody was cheerful, friendly, which Wil, remembering he was hungry, was beginning to find suffocating.

He ducked behind the travelers’ house and started up the stairs, taking them two at a time, towards the western battlements that overlooked the Ainsley downs. Perhaps there he could find space enough to breathe above the clatter.