The Wanderer's Mark: Book Three of Imirillia (The Books of Imirillia 3)

by Beth Brower

  “Yes?” Basaal asked the messenger once the man had pulled up his reins and caught his breath. The messenger lowered his eyes to show respect then looked at Basaal’s face.

  “A request from your honor guard,” he began, “one called Zanntal. He seeks your counsel with all immediacy and desires Your Grace to come straightway.”

  Basaal nodded. “I’ll come now. To the rear column?” he guessed.

  “I was sent to tell you that he waits half a league east of the column,” the man explained. “It would be my pleasure to show Your Grace where you may find him.”

  Hearing this, the hairs on the back of Basaal’s neck lifted. “Lead on, then, soldier.”

  They rode down the line, passing thousands of soldiers, supply lines, and pack animals: an endless array of might. Basaal received glances from the men as he rode past, but he did not meet any of their eyes. When they reached the rear companies, consisting of his own men, the messenger pointed to a small knot of figures out across the desert, waiting.

  “He asked you come alone,” the messenger said, appearing worried to send Basaal without a guard.

  “Then, alone I will go,” Basaal replied. “Zanntal must have reason for it.” Leaving his officers, Basaal continued towards what increasingly appeared to be a pathetic merchant’s caravan. Zanntal pulled his horse around, intercepting Basaal twenty feet out.

  “My prince, these men approached the rear column, eager to sell their horses and a few humble goods.”

  “Yes?” Basaal ran his eyes over the filthy men.

  Zanntal paused. “I—I recognized the horse, the brown mare. Is that not Hegleh, the horse you gifted to Queen Eleanor?”

  Basaal narrowed his eyes and cursed. Then he spurred Refigh forward, and Zanntal spun his mount quickly to follow him. As Basaal came upon the two men, he saw instantly they were slavers. They had half a dozen horses, Hegleh and Dantib’s gray mare among them.

  “Your Grace,” one of the slavers said, grinning a dirty grin. Then he bowed. “Your servant thought our beautiful mare would please you. Indeed, she is fine enough, even for a prince.”

  Basaal dismounted and grabbed the man by his throat. “Where did you get such a horse?” he demanded.

  The slaver’s eyes widened, and he shook his head. “I found them. Found—”

  “Liar!” Basaal threw the slaver to the ground and dropped down, closing his hand around the man’s neck. “I asked you where you found that horse,” Basaal hissed. “Which of the filthy slave holes did it come from?”

  The man struggled in Basaal’s grip, before he said. “It was—” He gasped for breath, and his companion, standing nearby, spoke out.

  “The edges of the east desert, Your Grace!”

  Basaal released the man’s throat and looked up at the filthy slaver who had spoken.

  “And the people?” Basaal asked, his voice all fury.

  “There were none—” the second slaver began. But Basaal jumped to his feet and drew his sword. “Katerah!” the man yelled as he stepped back, away from him. Basaal was too quick and caught the slaver by the arm, shaking him.

  “Where?” Basaal demanded.

  “They were going through Katerah for market,” the slaver said, stumbling over his words.

  Basaal threw the second man to the ground. “You know better than to operate the slave trade in Imirillia. I should kill you outright. I’ll not reimburse you for the stolen horses.” The slavers did not protest but, from their knees, looked towards each other with wide eyes.

  At Basaal’s signal, Zanntal dismounted and secured the stolen mounts.

  “Do you carry any other goods from these travelers?” Basaal asked, standing over the men, his sword tip hovering above the sand near their faces.

  “The saddlebag of the brown horse,” the second slaver said. “Just some clothing and a leather traveler’s purse.”

  Basaal’s breath was constricted by the anger he was trying to control, and he kicked sand at the men’s faces, before turning away in disgust.

  “If I see you heading back in the direction of the Shera Shee, I will send my men after you. Go!”

  The slavers rose from the ground and gathered their four remaining horses. Then, mounting two of them, they rode as fast as they could away from the anger of their emperor’s seventh son.

  Basaal cursed under his breath as he paced in the sand, trying to think if he’d ever heard of a place called Katerah.

  “Zanntal.” His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke. “I need you to do something for me.”

  “What would you have me do?” Zanntal asked, still holding the reins of the stolen horses. Hegleh seemed relieved to see Basaal and was docile and quiet. Dantib’s horse was so old he paid no more mind to Basaal than he had to the slavers. Each had been beaten with whips and bore the scabs of the abuse.

  Basaal covered his eyes, trying to maintain control. “I need you, Zanntal, to take these horses into the Shera Shee and find the place called Katerah. You must—” His voice broke with a harsh sound. “You must find her, Zanntal. You must find them both. And then, you must see them down into Aemogen. Can I trust you to this?”

  Basaal looked at the soldier. And, when Zanntal nodded, he took a deep breath. “I will see you have money,” Basaal continued. “Let me send an officer to supply you for the journey. I dare not bring Hegleh back to the column lest she be recognized. You must wait here,” he added, “until my officer returns with what you need. I will give you money enough to buy back Eleanor at any price, but you must not reveal you do it in my name.” Basaal stared at Zanntal, frightened by his own intensity. “Do you understand me?”

  “I will see it done,” Zanntal promised in a whisper. It seemed a strange sound in comparison to the near shouts from Basaal. “I can maneuver the dangers of the desert. The Aemogen queen will be traced.”

  Basaal reached for Hegleh and laid his forehead against her cheek in desperation. She nudged at him, so he moved his hand affectionately around her ears before moving to the saddlebags. Some of her clothes, as well as Dantib’s, the footwear he’d given Eleanor, and her bag. He withdrew it and, somewhat hesitantly, opened it. It carried nothing of value: a piece of stale bread and a rag, smeared with dirt and blood. He was about to close it, when he saw the pouch of seeds he had gifted Eleanor tucked into the bottom. Heartsick, Basaal secured the latch on the saddlebag and turned away.

  He was terrified.

  ***

  The Imirillian company pushed on, past the Kotaah Hills, into the Aronee. Emperor Shaamil usually maintained his silence, except to speak with his generals and, occasionally, his two sons. Whatever comments he did direct at Basaal were acidic in nature. Basaal brushed aside the sting of his father’s words and performed mechanically, if not admirably, when the officers met with the emperor. He would maintain his authority as leader of the conquest, and his mannerisms manifested that. The emperor began to praise his son in public, only to make a cutting remark about Basaal’s performance once they were alone or in the company of Ammar.

  Basaal threw his mind into the game of negotiating the emperor’s moods, while his heart was sick for worry. Zanntal had left weeks ago, and Basaal had no way of knowing how much time Eleanor and Dantib had been in captivity. Even a few weeks of crossing the desert in a slave train could be enough to kill a person, let alone an old man. Little water. Little food. Basaal doubted that Zanntal would find the stable master alive.

  And Eleanor. He could not recall her face without feeling a wave of absolute panic coursing through him. He knew that a young woman in a slave train could be misused in the cruelest of ways, if not by the slave masters, then by those willing to purchase her. Only Basaal’s stiffest determination could keep his emotions in check as they crossed the Aronee, passed through the city of Alliet, and dropped down into the hills of the stone sea above Marion.

  One night, while they were still in Alliet, Ammar came across Basaal as he was sitting in the very same room where Eleanor had resealed
his Safeeraah. The physician looked at Basaal’s swollen eyes and wet face and said nothing. Rather, he uncharacteristically sat beside Basaal and placed his arm around his shoulders. Neither spoke, and Basaal did not explain. But Ammar stayed with him, in silence, far into the night.

  ***

  Eleanor cried out as her wrists were yanked and the shackles dug into the raw skin beneath them. Dantib had stumbled again, and he was trying to get back up, but Eleanor could see the trembling of his lips. Spittle clung to Dantib’s face. She turned and looked about, panicked that the one-eyed slaver might have seen them fall. Then she knelt down, giving Dantib her bound hands so that he might grab onto them and lift himself up.

  A slaver at the rear of the column rode towards them. At the same time, the one-eyed slaver cast a gaze in their direction. He yelled something, the anger in his words seeming to singe the already hot desert air. The slaver from behind dismounted and yelled something at Dantib. As the stable master was trying to regain his footing, the slaver kicked the old man in the stomach. Dantib fell with a groan and turned, dry heaving into the sand.

  “Stop!” Eleanor cried out, trying to scramble towards Dantib as best she could despite her chains. “Leave him be!”

  But the slaver kicked Dantib again and yelled something at the one-eyed man, who’d come up behind them.

  They argued back and forth in their unintelligible dialect as Eleanor reached her hand out to touch Dantib’s elbow. He understood the words of the slavers. And, as Eleanor watched his expression, she saw a look of resignation. Before she could speak, the one-eyed slaver pulled Dantib toward him and stuck a key into the lock of his shackle. As he pulled the iron bindings away, Dantib’s arms fell, and he collapsed to the sand. Then the tall slaver, who guarded the rear, pulled the chain from the shackle around Dantib’s waist as the one-eyed man unlocked that shackle as well.

  Dantib was now free of all his chains. Eleanor tried to wipe the sweat from her eyes, but she was yanked to her feet by the tall guard. Then he pulled her back in the direction of the large column.

  “No!” Eleanor screamed as she yanked her hands away. But the chain, now detached from Dantib’s shackles, flew like a giant snake, whipping around and catching on the ankle of the one-eyed slaver. He screamed out in pain as Eleanor scrambled across the sand, stumbling beside Dantib.

  “They can’t leave you!” she cried, but she was jerked again to her feet.

  “Go!” Dantib pleaded with her. “There is still a way for you to live. Go!”

  “No!” Eleanor said as she fought the arms of the one-eyed slaver now yanking her back mercilessly as the taller man kicked Dantib once more.

  A flash of lightning came across Eleanor’s back and wrapped around her neck, flicking up her chin and stinging her lip. There was blood. She cried out as the one-eyed slaver brought his whip down on her back again—and again. He yelled at her in Imirillian, calling her a fool, useless, as the lash continued to come again and again and again.

  Eleanor dug her fingers into the sand, but nothing fought back against them, and it was no relief from the pain. Flash. The agony was blinding, and as she screamed, her lip tore all the more. In one last burst of anguish, Eleanor raised her hands above her head and begged for mercy.

  The one-eyed slaver called out, but it was no longer a scream of anger, rather the surprise of fear. He stepped back, away from her, and looked at the other slaver. Eleanor’s sleeve had fallen down to her elbow, revealing the mark of the house of Basaal, seventh son.

  The slaver cursed under his breath and threw his whip to the ground. Then he looked nervously at the tall slaver, who, in turn, looked back towards Dantib.

  Eleanor could not tell if she was breathing or sobbing, but a horrible sound came from her throat as she sank her face into the sand. There was no hope for them now. Dantib would die and she would not last out the day.

  Kale, the head slaver, came back to see to the commotion. The one-eyed slaver pulled at Eleanor’s wrist, causing her to scream against the pain of moving, and pointed to the mark on Eleanor’s forearm.

  “Interesting,” Kale said in Imirillian instead of in the Shera Shee dialect. The one-eyed slaver blurted something out, and Kale shrugged. “Bad luck?” he said. “Perhaps. The old man we will leave for the dogs, but put the girl back on the chain line. We will dispose of her as soon as we can, preferably for a good price.”

  The one-eyed slave pulled Eleanor up from the sand, eyeing her suspiciously. Numb fire raged through Eleanor’s back, the tatters of her worn clothing becoming soaked in blood. She whimpered as she was forced to her feet and braved the scorching pain to turn her head back towards Dantib. He had lifted himself to his knees, crying. Eleanor knew they were not for himself—these tears, the last his withered body had to give—but for her.

  They had not gone far before Eleanor could hear the howls and snarls of dogs fighting as they tore into Dantib’s frail body. Eleanor dared not watch, but she wept openly, stumbling along on her torn feet with the slave train.

  ***

  She did not know what gave her the courage to move, but Eleanor continued forward. They had linked her into the main line behind a woman who seemed to resent Eleanor’s struggle. Once, Eleanor lost consciousness, waking in searing pain with an aggressive pull from the one-eyed slaver. Her lip had split again, and blood ran down her chin. Seeing this, the woman in front of Eleanor sneered.

  It was long past dark before they stopped. So delirious was she in her agony that she gave no thought to food, although someone offered her water. It tasted of blood, but she drank what she could then set her head on the ground. The sand beneath Eleanor’s side, as she lay in dumb pain, was the softest thing she could recall to memory. She was too tired to feel much of anything save despair.

  After the company had settled, Eleanor watched the slavers walk the perimeter with their torches, a hole as big as the sky eating her from the center of her body outward. Dantib was dead, torn apart by dogs, and left to the mercy of the sands for his burial. Basaal’s dearest friend, sacrificed. She cringed at his memory.

  ***

  Nothing had been left inside Eleanor but pain. Whatever native strength she had drawn on—from the moment she had put herself into the hands of the Imirillian army—had dissipated, had fled. And now, being empty, the loss of Dantib, the whipping, and the heat had broken her. She knew she would never see Aemogen again.

  Sleep was not kind, neither were the long, wakeful hours of silence and starlight. Eleanor’s open wounds screamed against the harsh fabric of clothing, so she lay perfectly still, the edges of her torn flesh pulsing feverishly. She knew she could not go another day. Her fate would no longer move her towards home. So Eleanor thought of nothing. Nothingness was a refuge, it could not trespass through the pain of being separated from all that she loved. Nothing. Nothing. She repeated this thought. And the night wore on.

  Eleanor must have dozed, giving in to some thin form of sleep, for the image of Basaal, leaving his garden after prayer, appeared before her eyes just as she opened her lids against the heavy weight pounding in her head. The night was still dark, and the image faded. Eleanor bit her lip then gave a quick intake of breath, her eyes watering at the painful reminder that her lip and chin had been split open by the whip’s tongue. But she clung to the image of Basaal from her dreams. Basaal and his rituals. Basaal and his prayers. Basaal and his Illuminating God.

  “Oh, God,” Eleanor groaned, an expression of futility more than a plea for comfort. “Oh, Basaal’s God.” She pressed her cheek into the sand and spoke aloud in her native tongue.

  “For whatever comes from uttering your name, I ask for it.”

  And, finally, Eleanor slept.

  ***

  When she woke, a dim light was in bloom above the horizon, and the filthy camp was beginning to stir. She knew that they would soon eat a dried crust of bread and then continue farther south into the Shera Shee. But, the despair she had known just hours before was…gone.

&n
bsp; Spare as you are spared.

  These words spread out in Eleanor’s mind. She moved her impossibly stiff neck. Her eyes felt swollen as she blinked, and she knew that the pain in her back would be hellish as soon as the slavers lifted her to her feet.

  Eleanor again looked towards the lightening sky. Spare as you are spared. It was not a line she remembered from her studies.

  “Up. Up!” came the call as the slavers walked among their inventory. “Up!”

  Chains began to scrape and clink, and Eleanor tried to lift herself but could not. She almost felt patient as she waited for the one-eyed slaver to yank her into the pain of the day ahead. As she moved her feet, a soft resistance responded, and Eleanor, with great struggle, propped herself onto her elbow, gritting her teeth as the chains moved against her swollen wrists, her curiosity outweighing her pain. The girl. A little girl who had been watching Eleanor for days with hungry eyes was curled up like a kitten, her head resting against Eleanor’s ankles.

  “Up! Up!” the slavers demanded.

  Eleanor was forced to her feet and given dry bread. She grimaced but did not call out. But the child, yanked up onto her knees, seemed dazed and dropped the bread they’d given her to crawl towards Eleanor’s skirts, where she whimpered.

  Too tired to speak, Eleanor moved her chained hands down towards the girl’s head, brushing the hair back from the child’s eyes as best she could.

  “Shh,” she managed to say.

  Eleanor bent down and retrieved the child’s bread from the sand, brushing it off and offering it to her. As the girl took the bread and opened her mouth to eat, Eleanor saw that her mouth was an infected, bloody mess, for the child had no tongue. It had been cut out.

  “Of all—” Eleanor began and closed her eyes, for her misery-laden back now felt like a gift in comparison.

  “Here,” she said as she took the girl’s bread and placed it between her own lips to soften it, helping the girl eat what little she could.

  “Better?” Eleanor asked.