by Beth Brower
“Yes,” Zanntal shouted. “Hurry. Sharin is crying, and I can’t give her any food until you can get up here.”
The muscles in Eleanor’s forearms were tight and strained. She wrapped the climbing rope around her waist and maneuvered it to make the knot Zanntal had taught her days earlier.
“I’m ready.”
“Yes,” Zanntal answered.
Eleanor had spent a portion of every day wondering why she had not thought to find herself some men’s trousers. After granting herself a moment to again curse her thoughtlessness, she began to pull herself up the face of the small cliff, her purple fingers clinging to whatever edges she could find.
Though not as harsh as it had been during the night, the wind left the rock face cold, and Eleanor shivered despite herself. When she reached her hand up to grab a small shelf, the rock beneath her left foot gave way.
Eleanor cried out as she fell, and the rope jerked around her stomach with such force that she felt as if her back would break in half. The ill-tied supplies slipped from their place and tumbled down the cliff face, bouncing and then falling into a steep fissure. Eleanor’s arms flailed, and she could hear Zanntal yelling something. Rock and dirt came spilling down from above her head, and Eleanor struggled to right herself and to grab the cliff face.
“I’m trying!” she shouted against the steady stream of words she could not understand. Finally, her hand struck the rock, and Eleanor managed to slide her fingers into a small crevice.
“Ah!” she yelled, pulling with all of her strength until she could find a steady place to put her feet. Once she had, she could feel the rope slacken as Zanntal regained his lost breath.
He came over to the edge and looked down.
“And that was nearly all the food?” he called down, scanning the remnants of what could be seen below them.
“Yes,” Eleanor yelled, clinging to the cliff, her pulse beating against the unmovable stone. “Should I go down?” she asked. “Can I salvage anything?”
Zanntal cursed—something Eleanor had not heard him do before—then shook his head. “No. It’s all fallen beyond reach. Any effort would be futile, a waste of strength. Let me untie Sharin and set her down, and I will help lift you up.”
It took several minutes of negotiating the cliff face, but Eleanor was finally pulled up over the edge. Zanntal gathered her into his arms and uttered a phrase of relief, although concern still marked his face.
“I have some bread and very little dried fruit,” he said. “Water we have but little.”
“What about the snow?” she asked, breathing hard against Zanntal’s chest.
“Yes.” Zanntal nodded. “But it must be melted first, or we would seal our deaths.”
He helped Eleanor to her feet, and she walked to where Sharin lay, huddled halfway under a stone. Zanntal brought out a bite of bread. While he fed the girl, Eleanor stood and studied the pass ahead. It looked more navigable than anything else they had seen the entire day, and Eleanor breathed out in relief. After Sharin was fed, they continued.
Late in the day, just as the sun had turned the sky gold and pink and the wind began spinning past their ears, Eleanor lifted herself to the top of an outcropping.
“Zanntal!” she cried over her shoulder. “Aemogen! It’s Aemogen!”
Stretched out beneath a smattering of white clouds, the woods and fields of Aemogen rested serenely far below them. Zanntal came up behind Eleanor, Sharin asleep on his back. He did not speak as his eyes wandered across what could be seen of the green country.
“No view was ever more beautiful!” She laughed, gripping on Zanntal’s arm.
“Let us be careful,” Zanntal warned. “It looks as if the glaciers on this side are larger than anything we have yet encountered.”
Eleanor felt too happy to care, and they soon began their descent.
***
King Staven looked no happier to receive the emperor and his sons than Prince Basaal had felt to be received. Basaal’s obvious displeasure and Ammar’s taciturn silence left Shaamil to be the most pleasant of the party. This amused Ammar, at the very least.
Once the two brothers had withdrawn to Basaal’s private quarters, Basaal ranted to Ammar about having to spend time in Marion City. Their father had been seen to a far more elegant suite, but the physician had chosen the hospitality of his brother, who claimed his mother’s rooms without so much a “Hello, Uncle. How are you?”
“I would warn you against the baths,” Basaal mentioned cryptically to his brother.
“Why is that?”
“Oh, you may get stuck conversing with one or more of my relatives,” he explained. “And, the bath never struck me as an ideal place for a gathering of lost kin.”
A frown of agreement came from Ammar. Then he half disappeared into a room that a maidservant had just finished arranging. “I would like to wash and change,” Ammar said, “and go an entire day without seeing your charming face, dearest brother. Good night.” Ammar closed the door behind him, leaving Basaal to wonder how he would explain Ammar’s absence at dinner.
“I’ll just see about having your trunks sent up,” Basaal shouted after his brother, “since serving Your Ornery Grace is certainly not below my dignity.”
“I would rather think not,” came the reply, and Basaal, despite himself, laughed aloud. Then he sent a servant to bring up Ammar’s things.
After several death threats, Ammar did come to dinner in the end. As Basaal sat down to sup with King Staven and his court, he caught the eye of his elderly cousin, Telford, Thayne’s brother. Telford winked. Basaal’s expression, in return, was almost murderous. He had no idea what he could say to his cousin about Eleanor’s whereabouts, and the guilt of it made Telford’s watchful glances unbearable.
After a stiff and quiet meal—the emperor sitting beside Staven, playing games of subtle word manipulation in between compliments about the food and drink—Basaal found out that they were to be treated by a concert of musicians. Upon this announcement, Basaal groaned aloud, which caught the attention of Staven, who, in return, glared at Basaal.
It was another hour before Basaal could escape.
***
“Ah! I hoped I’d run into you,” a voice said.
Basaal jerked his head up, immediately chastising himself for seeking solitude in one of the formal gardens. Of course, Telford was having him watched, just waiting for his chance to pounce.
“The last thing I would think this to be is an accidental run-in, Cousin,” Basaal stated hotly once Telford had come close enough to fall into step with him.
“Still wearing black, I see,” Telford said, grinning good-naturedly as he straightened his hair. It had come askew in his rush to catch up with his cousin. Basaal hoped such silly fashion ideas were not hereditary.
“What do you want from me?” Basaal asked.
“Last time we met, there was an untimely interruption,” Telford said as he looked across the garden. “Let’s go down this corridor of crab apples to that stone gazebo,” he suggested, pointing to an allay of trees in spring bloom. There’s someone just up ahead,” Telford explained, “whom we should avoid.”
Basaal obliged with a grumble.
“As I was saying,” Telford continued, “we were interrupted before I could fulfill my part of the bargain.” He withdrew an old, faded letter, its seal long since broken. “A letter, from your mother. She mentions you. Needless to say, I don’t think she dressed you in black at the time, expecting you to be scowling at the world. But mothers rarely see foul markers in their own children, so it wouldn’t have made a difference,” he added, chuckling at his own joke as they arrived at the stone gazebo. He handed the letter to Basaal. “I do believe the words thank you are often said in such circumstances.”
“Go to the devil,” Basaal replied as he slid the worn letter into his stiff jacket.
“Touchy.”
In a rush of anger, Basaal grabbed his cousin by the lapels and forced him against one of the
pillars. “I do not need any smart comments from the likes of you. I know you’re here to ask about Eleanor, and I have nothing to tell you,” Basaal hissed as he shook his cousin. “Nothing.”
“My dear boy, calm yourself down,” Telford said, his tone turning businesslike. “I do want to ask you about the whereabouts of the queen. But, you mustn’t take it so personally—you will give yourself stomach problems, and, at my age, there is almost nothing worse.”
In frustration, Basaal released Telford and took himself to the other side of the stone structure, sinking onto a bench and covering his face with his hands.
“I could be killed,” he explained, “for what I am about to tell you.”
“You’re in luck,” Telford said. Basaal could hear Telford settling himself down on a bench opposite him. “I don’t blabber.”
Basaal looked through his parted fingers at the older man. “I lost her,” he said.
Telford shifted his mouth. “How does one lose somebody exactly?”
“I arranged for her escape to the eastern coast, as my letter informed you,” Basaal said. “But, on my way down to Marion, I found out she had been taken by the slavers of the Shera Shee.”
No reply came from his cousin.
“I sent one of my best men to a place, a slave market of sorts, where we know they were taken, to search her out, unbeknownst to my father.” Basaal sat up and placed both of his hands on his knees, forcing whatever composure he still had to take the lead. “I suppose your connections have not heard anything yet of her return to Aemogen?”
“No.” Telford looked wholly serious for the first time. “But, if you’ve got a man on it, I shouldn’t lose heart completely.”
While making a sound of desperation, Basaal raised his eyebrows and made a gesture with one of his hands.
“Oh dear,” Telford said.
“What?” Basaal asked, his voice thick with the emotion he had been trying to control for the last several weeks.
“Nothing, my boy.” The courtier was all sympathetic sincerity. “Nothing.”
***
Eleanor’s feet could not move fast enough for her as they left the foothills. After two long and careful days, they had found themselves on easier footing, for the snow had long since retreated in the crags they had come down through. After another day and a half of traveling, they reached one of the roads north of High Field fen. She felt so hungry to be home that the pain of forcing her body to hurry seemed a small price to pay for reaching Ainsley sooner. Zanntal, carrying Sharin, had followed her pace tirelessly. It was on this lonely road that she saw a rider, a fen rider. One of her own men.
“You there!” Eleanor called out to the fen rider. He looked towards them with a wary expression on his face, and she did not blame him. The three of them were a spectacle, to be sure, having run out of food two days previous and with little to live on the days before that. Eleanor was sure her own hollowness was accentuated. Even Zanntal’s cheekbones were more pronounced.
The rider pulled his horse around. “May I help you?” he said, anxious to continue on his way.
The moment caught Eleanor’s tongue in her throat. What a tremendous difference must have taken place for her own fen rider not to recognize her face. Eleanor straightened her shoulders and tiled her head sideways, stifling her exhaustion.
“I—” she began.
“Your Majesty!” The rider’s face went terribly blank as he dismounted his horse and fell to the ground, kneeling. “Forgive me. I was not—I did not expect—”
“Thaniel,” she said as she motioned him to stand.
The rider nodded, his mouth hanging open as he rose to his feet. “I offer you my horse,” he said, “my—my—anything, My Queen.” His eyes searched Eleanor’s face, resting on her marked lower lip and chin. Eleanor cleared her throat, and he looked away.
“What I need, Thaniel,” Eleanor said firmly despite her light-headedness, “is for you to ride for help. My companions and I are in need of food and rest and conveyance to Ainsley as soon as possible. Can you secure horses and food from the nearest fen—High Field, is it not?”
“Yes.” Thaniel bought his chin down sharply. “I will find horses and food—and help,” he said. “An honor, My Queen.” He mounted, spinning his horse around so fast that Eleanor was afraid it would fall on him. “Stay on the road, and we will find you!” he yelled back. And his horse was racing through the trees before Eleanor had a chance to say anything else.
“One of my fen riders,” Eleanor breathed out to Zanntal in complete happiness as if that were all the explanation that he would need.
***
“Annan!” Basaal yelled at the approaching rider as he rose up in his stirrups. Before his father could call Basaal back, he spurred Refigh forward. He dismounted with haste, practically throwing himself into a run, as Annan did the same, and then they embraced. Basaal laughed, so relieved to see his friend—so relieved to finally be away from Staven’s court.
“We are yet five days out from camp,” Basaal said, “only having left Marion City yesterday.” Basaal hit his friend on the shoulder. “What brings you out?”
Annan motioned behind Basaal, and they grabbed their reins, leading their mounts from the road. They bowed respectfully as the emperor and his retinue passed, and then Annan turned to answer Basaal’s question.
“When word came you had entered Marion, I decided to meet you,” Annan answered. Mounting their horses, they fell back to the rear of the company, beyond where anyone could overhear their conversation. “I came across the emperor’s men on my way. Six thousand?”
“Yes,” Basaal said, and he blew the air in his lungs out deliberately. “Add that to my seven thousand, waiting near the pass, and we will be thirteen thousand strong.”
“This conquest does not require those numbers,” Annan said, creasing his eyebrows.
“No,” Basaal agreed. “Nor such personal attention from the emperor. But, this has turned from a conquest into a political statement. No doubt King Staven is meant to take note of it as well as the Aemogen council.”
Annan eyed Basaal. “There are rumors—” he began, pausing before continuing, “that have come down with the messengers. Many are about you, your father, and your marriage to the Aemogen queen.”
Basaal adjusted his weaponry and gave Annan an exaggerated grimace. “You tell me the progress we are making at the pass,” he replied, “and I will answer what I can about said rumors.” The concern in Annan’s face did not dissipate with Basaal’s words—it increased.
***
Weariness did not stop Eleanor from moving her small company forward, her eyes straining in hopes of seeing the rider returning on the road. Sharin was asleep on her shoulder, having cried herself to sleep from hunger. They walked slowly, finally stopping for a long while at a stream that came near the road.
Sharin whimpered, still shivering from the cold, and Eleanor now felt strange comforting a child. She was home. She was Queen. She would command her armies in war. And now there was a child in her arms that she had taken full responsibility for by bringing her home to Aemogen. Whatever maternal strengths the journey had required of her felt ill fitting now, like a garment sized for another person. But Eleanor did her best to comfort Sharin, helping her drink the fresh water, watching the road eagerly for whatever help Thaniel might have found.
When no one came, they continued, despite the late-afternoon sun growing yellow and low on the horizon.
“There,” Zanntal finally said, pointing not down the roadway but across a wide field, green with spring grass. A band of horses was barreling towards them. With relief, Eleanor slipped Sharin to Zanntal and left the road, walking—running almost—waving her arms.
“Thaniel must have found soldiers,” Eleanor called back. “They are no farmers.” She thought she spoke loudly, but Zanntal did not seem to hear her words, neither did Sharin stir. Too tired to speak again, Eleanor turned back towards the riders, her eyes finding any kind of foc
using difficult.
They were now almost upon Eleanor, calling out to her. And then the lead rider swung down from his horse and ran to her. In a single motion—a grace Eleanor had not thought she would see again—Aedon gathered her into his arms, lifting her tired body from the ground.
She was home.
Chapter Six
Eleanor slept for three days. It was a deep sleep—endlessly falling into the layers of her mind—and she felt, if she chose, she could be lost to it forever. Part of Eleanor would not have cared; she was so weary. Her dreams were the texture of the desert, the gold and heat, and sometimes, she could almost feel the touch of her Imirillian prince.
When Eleanor woke, Aedon was sitting at her bedside, reading a dispatch. The indescribable comfort of this private room—in whatever farmhouse Aedon had found—caused her to lie quiet. She watched him without speaking, noting his familiar expression, and the customary mannerisms of Aedon in concentration.
Eleanor smiled. And, as if Aedon could hear the sound of it, he looked up and met her eyes.
“You’re awake.”
“Yes,” Eleanor said. She cleared her throat and began to cough. Aedon waited patiently and offered her some water, which she took gladly. Try as he might, Aedon could not ease the worry from his eyes. “I am so relieved to see you.” These words came from Eleanor as a deep, overdue breath.
“When you failed to return,” Aedon said, stretching back into his mind to find the words, “I had supposed this prince had broken his promise. Day after day—the months that passed and all of Aemogen pulling together—” He paused, leaning forward so that his elbows rested on her bed, and took her hands in his, being careful with her raw fingers.
Several moments passed before Aedon could again speak, his face caught in a grief she did not understand. Eleanor, too tired for words, creased her eyebrows and narrowed her eyes to ask him what he was thinking.
“The farmwife bathed you,” he said, his voice came slow and measured, and Aedon looked down at the quilted blanket as he spoke. “Before she dressed you, she asked me to come into the room, for she was disturbed by the scars on your back, your wrists, and feet, and by the mark on your arm.” He looked up, directly into Eleanor’s eyes. “I asked for discretion—that she not tell anyone what she saw—for I could not bear the thought of you becoming the subject of any speculation.” Aedon bit at these last words and took his hands away from hers, rubbing his eyes with his fingers. “Oh, Eleanor, you have been so long away.”
