by Beth Brower
“You should not mind him.” Dantib was caring for his horse, and he did not look at Eleanor. “My son,” he clarified. “You should not mind my son. He has seen much sorrow, and it is through his pain that he speaks.”
“He did not approve of your work in the palace?” Eleanor asked, leaning her head against the rock behind her, too tired to eat the dried fruit they had rationed from Dantib’s pack.
“No,” Dantib said as he rubbed a cream into the legs of his gray horse. “But he did not always feel so vehemently as he does now. You see,” he said, grunting as he reached his fingers down the fetlock of his horse. “They had a child, a son, who married young.” Dantib stood up straight, arching his back before walking over towards Eleanor and settling himself beside her.
He brushed the sweat away from his forehead. “Imirillia prospers to the west,” he continued. “The caravans go abundantly between Zarbadast and the cities and countries found there. But here, in the East, where I am from, we live scattered through rock and desert, poor and hungry, and it is hard for a man to provide. The port in Krayklan has a northern road that runs to Zarbadast. But, farther south, we do not benefit. When my grandson’s wife died in childbirth,” Dantib said as he shook his head, “my grandson was distraught and felt there was no life for him in the East. He resorted to migrating to the more prosperous country of Aramesh, to the south. That was three years ago.”
“Just before the Desolation,” Eleanor said, her face falling to the sympathy she felt. “He was in Aramesh?”
“He had left the child with my son and daughter-in-law, and, when word came of Shaamil’s revenge, we waited. My grandson never returned. We suppose he must have died beneath the hand of Imirillia’s own army.”
Eleanor sat still, somber, and the image of Blaike’s body, gashed and empty, crossed her mind. She shook her head at the waste. “I am sorry,” she whispered. “I am sorry for it all.”
“You know that Basaal has his own sorrows from Aramesh.” Dantib looked kindly on Eleanor. “My son does not know the prince spared so many. He does not know who Basaal is, so he does not understand my devotion.”
“And why have you not told him?” Eleanor questioned the stable master.
Dantib’s lips played with a soft smile, and his eyes lifted gently to Eleanor’s face. “My dear, there are journeys to be had, and we must not dilute the struggle, or we do those we love a disservice. Now, sleep,” Dantib urged. “We have been riding hard. I feel at peace, as our way has been blessed. We will begin again soon enough. You can rest.”
***
The horses continued to struggle across the eastern sands, and the physical demands of the journey did not lessen. The jolt of Hegleh’s pace screamed against the blisters on Eleanor’s hand and legs, but her thoughts were bent on Aemogen, and she would not relent. Every part of Eleanor’s body was tight, and anxiety was eating from her heart into her bones. She felt like she was on fire with worry every time they passed another party or saw riders in the distance.
Dantib held a harmony with the horses that Eleanor could not fathom. Some times, as if he were privy to their thoughts, he drove them hard, beyond what Eleanor supposed was their strength. Other times, he gave them rest when Eleanor could not see a reason for a slower pace. She fought against the temptation of impatience, watching over her shoulder for any sign of the Vestan, wishing to push on. Despite her nervousness, Dantib would not push the beasts.
For several days, Eleanor and Dantib progressed steadily towards the East, dropping south at certain markers that Dantib had memorized. They encountered few travelers, none with hostility or much curiosity.
“The people of the East,” Dantib explained, “value their independence and mind their own business.”
Despite the arduous nature of desert travel, the first weeks passed safely. They were hidden in the barren rock deserts of the East with no whisper of the Vestan. As their confidence increased, they began to spend hours speaking and telling stories. He told her of his childhood in the desert, of how he secured his first palace job, and of meeting the child Basaal. She, in turn, spoke of Edythe, her father, and her people.
Listening intently, Dantib would occasionally share his observations on life. Eleanor’s mind was greedy for the wisdom he held, and she saw how Dantib warranted Basaal’s high esteem. There was a sweetness in the old man’s company that lead Eleanor to forget her blisters and sores, the dirt, and the wind. As the days passed, her feelings for Dantib grew tender, her blisters began to fade, and, although they subsisted on little, there was always enough. Soon, Eleanor would remind herself, she would be sailing to Aemogen, and all would be well. For the first time in months, Eleanor’s dreams were only of home.
Chapter Three
“I had forgotten what it meant to travel with Father,” Basaal said as he reclined in the comfort of the emperor’s personal tent, a small map rolled out across the floor.
“Yes,” Ammar said, not looking up from where he was writing at the table, replying with thick sarcasm. “An extended wing of Zarbadast; all the comforts of home.”
Basaal sat up and laughed. “You need to get out more,” he said. “I daresay no one in the world travels as we do now. I certainly never do—unless with Father.”
“It’s hot,” Ammar replied as if that mere fact alone discounted every comfort.
“It’s spring,” Basaal chided, “and almost as temperate as the Zeaad ever gets. Thank the seven stars it isn’t any worse. You do realize,” he added, “that Father has several companies of soldiers whose sole occupation is to procure and deliver fresh fruit?”
“The grapes have too many seeds,” Ammar replied.
Basaal grinned then picked the map up from the floor, his eyes wandering towards the eastern roads, where Eleanor and Dantib should be, following a path to the coast.
If the Illuminating God would only grant it.
“Trying to see if you can find your wife among the landmarks?” Ammar asked. Basaal looked up. Ammar was studying him.
“Leave off it, Ammar. I know nothing of her whereabouts.”
“And neither do the Vestan,” the emperor’s voice came from across the pavilion. Basaal and Ammar looked at each other before acknowledging their father as he came through the door of the tent with two of his generals. “Strange,” he said, “that she should be so capable of disappearing with no leads or trace.” Shaamil walked across the soft carpet of rugs and sat down at the table near Ammar. “I did, however, receive a singularly interesting missive.” The emperor moved his eyes to Basaal’s, a slight smile on his face.
Basaal cleared his throat. He and the emperor had hardly exchanged a civil word over the last few weeks of their travel. “Yes?”
“The stable master, whom you dismissed with such—” Shaamil paused, “exhibition, has turned up missing. And so has the horse you gave Eleanor.”
“Really?” Basaal had no need to conjure up any emotions, for his panic sounded like interest—it sounded like anger. “Any further news?”
“The old man was from the East,” Shaamil answered. “Several companies have been sent to scour the desert and ask questions in any manner that will produce answers. If the queen is trying to reach the eastern coast, she will not get far. We will intercept her before she could hope to find a port.”
Basaal licked his lips and rolled up the map slowly in his hands, his pulse racing. “And, when they catch her?”
The emperor looked at Basaal. “She has sealed her own death.”
***
“I’m sure that they did not see us,” Eleanor said aloud, more to allay her own fears than to calm Dantib. In the early afternoon, a line, a shoddy caravan of sorts, had appeared on the horizon. The small band was moving south until a group of riders broke away towards the southeast, the direction Eleanor and Dantib were traveling. At first, they had dismissed it out of hand, but Dantib grew increasingly nervous and eventually turned their horses towards one of the rocky crevices nearby. They wound down throug
h a small canyon, and, as night fell, Dantib found a place, tucked away from sight, where they would wait a few hours before striking out again.
“The caravan will be resting, and we can distance ourselves,” he told Eleanor as he gave the exhausted horses almost the last of their water. “The next river is less than a days’ journey to the east.”
“Is this river like the last one?” she asked, remembering how they had to sift the last stream through Eleanor’s headscarf to drink any of it.
“I believe so.” Dantib set a saddlebag on the ground.
“That is not quite the style of living I had accustomed myself to in Zarbadast,” Eleanor laughed.
Screaming startled Eleanor to her feet as three armed men came streaming into their makeshift cave. With their scimitars raised, they pushed Dantib to the ground away from the horses. Eleanor tried to run, but a man with only one eye grabbed her arm and wrenched it behind her back, forcing her to the ground.
“Please.” Dantib spoke from his knees. “We are humble travelers. Take what you might, but leave us in peace.”
A rather tall man stepped forward and laughed, calling to his companions in the cave. Eleanor tried to look up, but the one-eyed man brought his hand down across her temple, causing a flash of pain. A stone bit into Eleanor’s knee, but she dared not shift again as the men spoke.
“The gray horse is as much dog meat as anything,” the tall man said. “But the brown mare will fetch a fair price.”
“Take the horses,” Dantib said, sounding feeble and old.
The tall man looked at Dantib, and then his eyes wandered towards Eleanor. She watched as best she could without catching the ire of her one-eyed captor.
“Bring her to me,” the tall man said. Eleanor was forced to her feet.
The man standing over Dantib said something she could not understand, and the three men laughed. Dantib must have understood the dialect, for a protective flash crossed his eyes and his chin quivered angrily.
Eleanor was forced before the tall man. He reached a hand towards her, and she tried to slap him away. But her captor grabbed her wrists and held them tight behind her back. The tall man touched her face and turned her head, pulling off her headscarf. He said something to the other men in their own private dialect, then he moved his hand down her neck to her shoulder. Eleanor flinched, and he laughed, stepping forward and trapping her between himself and the one-eyed man. He sheathed his scimitar and brought his hands to her waist.
“Don’t touch me!” Eleanor spat in the man’s face. He smiled in reply. Eleanor lifted her chin and threw her shoulders back. He caught the full force of her distain and hesitated, glaring back before roughly pressing his thumbs into her lower abdomen.
“She’s not with child,” he said in Imirillian, giving her a jaunty smile. Then he touched her chin softly and stepped away. “Bind them, and bring the horses. We must return to the column before daybreak.”
The third man, who stood over Dantib, procured some rough rope from his tunic. Soon Eleanor and Dantib were tied together, walking beside the tall man, with the other man leading the horses behind them.
“Are they marauders?” Eleanor whispered to Dantib when she found a chance to speak.
“Worse,” Dantib whispered back. “They are slavers. We are being taken into the Shera Shee.”
***
The night sky spread over the desert in its entire splendor, a perfect companion to the endless grains of sand beneath Basaal’s feet. He had taken himself away from camp to wonder at the stars, to pray. He was sore from the evening’s entertainments, where his father had made him perform in combat exercises for the amusement of the men. It was really, Basaal suspected, a way for Shaamil to reinforce his own power. Basaal’s shoulder was sore where he had taken a blow, and he moved it stiffly around as he studied the endless display of lights above him.
It was not long before Zanntal found him.
“My Prince?” Zanntal said as he approached Basaal.
“Zanntal,” Basaal said, nodding. “How is life at the rear of the column?” he asked, for they had spoken little in the last handful of weeks.
“As I prefer to be at a distance from the emperor and his men, being attached to your small company suits me well.”
“Distance can be a glorious thing,” Basaal agreed. His gaze moved across the still desert and he closed his eyes briefly, as if there was a physical pain he could not quench. “I am in desperate need of it, and so I came out here to think, to be away, and, most of all, to pray. It comes—”
The prince hesitated before continuing. “Sometimes, things become too much to bear, and I must open my mouth and pray as if the Illuminating God were drawing the devotion out of me and I will burn in His all-consuming fire if I cannot utter the words on my tongue. Tonight, I felt such a need.”
Zanntal remained quiet.
“It has been weeks, you know.” Basaal looked down and kicked the sand with his boot. “I’ve refused to pray since we left Zarbadast. I have never gone so long without paying my devotions.”
The soldier watched him, seeming unsure if Basaal was waiting for a response.
“Why so long?” Zanntal finally asked.
Basaal laughed. “Because the Illuminating God told me to do something I don’t think I can do and because I don’t understand why he asks it of me.”
“But, tonight, the desert called you back?”
“The Illuminating God called me back, and I must obey.” Basaal linked his fingers behind his head and gazed above him. “Everything in me desires to be aligned with his will. But I doubt what he has asked of me, and I cannot reconcile myself to it.”
“What, then, did you pray for just now?” Zanntal asked curiously.
Basaal shrugged and looked back up to the spangle of lights, twisting above the desert. “Myself. My devotion. The Aemogen queen.”
Back in Zarbadast, when Basaal had sworn Zanntal to secrecy and asked him to play part in Eleanor’s escape, Emaad’s friend had simply nodded, sworn a covenant, and done his duty. But Basaal struggled to keep his thoughts of Eleanor always to himself.
“I once told Eleanor that she was not my guiding star,” he confessed abruptly.
Zanntal waited. But when Basaal did not continue, he spoke. “And were you right or wrong?”
Sighing, Basaal dropped his hands, set his shoulders straight, and clasped his hands together behind his back as he looked into Zanntal’s eyes. “Both.”
***
The guards walked with torches around the perimeter of the misery-filled camp. When Eleanor asked Dantib about it, he did not hesitate before responding.
“The dogs,” he whispered as if it were prophecy. “The guards carry torches to frighten wild dogs who follow caravans, especially slave columns, in hopes of food.”
“What food is there to be found in this place?” Eleanor sighed miserably into the sand.
“Us,” Dantib said. “The weak, the sick, the dead. It is for human flesh they wait.”
Bile rose in Eleanor’s mouth at the thought, and she swallowed hard. Whatever hell fate could call up, Eleanor had not been expecting this. They had come so close to the sea. A tear escaped from her eye and pressed steadily down her cheek, leaving a wet line that caught the cold air of the desert night. She did not know their final fate, but Eleanor knew they had failed.
There were a few dozen miserable souls chained in the slave column. Eleanor and Dantib were linked together, forced to march at the rear. Shackles had been secured around their waists and wrists, and they had been walking for three days with little water and only a bite of bread for food.
Two of the slavers had taken the horses away, heading west in hopes of selling them to a caravan for a fair price. Dantib had lifted his manacled hands towards hers for comfort as Eleanor watched Hegleh disappear into the setting sun. Eleanor’s boots, itchy as they were, had been taken to vend along with Dantib’s overtunic and Eleanor’s leather bag. All were to be sold to the West, except the
m. They would go farther into the Shera Shee.
Now, a day later, her feet were raw and tired, bleeding from a misstep earlier in the day. The manacles would strip her wrists of their skin before long, and Eleanor could not move past the numbness of her shock. She remembered a time when she was young, Edythe had tripped Eleanor as they ran towards the coast near the fortress of Anoir. It was an accident, but Eleanor came down hard, the wind sucked from her lungs as she hit the dirt. It had felt like forever before she could get her body to take in air, to breathe. She had rolled to her knees and gasped at nothing, feeling frightened.
This was how Eleanor now felt—gasping, her fingers clutching the ground, but no air would come. Clarity felt impossible, and she could barely see the image of Ainsley’s towers as she faded into sleep.
***
“The Kotaah Hills are up ahead, and then we drop down through the Aronee.” Basaal said as he pointed to the distant haze.
“I can read a map,” Ammar remarked lightly to his brother.
“Can you?” Basaal raised his eyebrows. “I am all surprise. I did not know you could read anything. Now,” he added, “stop being so bitterly sarcastic, and enjoy the news that we are well into our journey.”
“Only to make the same journey home on some nameless day,” Ammar replied.
“Hopeless.” Basaal patted Refigh good-naturedly as he scanned the desert before them. The fall winds, which had perturbed him on his journey north to Zarbadast, were not to be found now in spring, and they rode without headscarves.
They were weeks out of Zarbadast, and the pulse in Basaal’s blood quickened in anticipation as they headed south. Ammar often rode beside Basaal, who was attached to the body of the emperor’s honorary company. They sought asylum in the back, riding just before the soldiers, wishing to spend no time with the pleasantries born of royal expectation.
The sound of a rider caused Basaal to turn his head. It was a messenger bearing his own colors. Basaal nodded to Ammar and turned out of place to meet the soldier.
