by Beth Brower
“I do have another reason to be taken into consideration.” Eleanor pulled back the gray sleeve of her dress from her left forearm, lifting her arm into the air. “This is the mark of his house. Prince Basaal took me into his house as an act of protection.”
“Which means…?” Aedon asked.
“That this man is my husband,” Eleanor said with all the strength she could muster.
Silence sliced the throne room. Crispin stared at the mark, his face going pale. Then he looked down, placing a hand across his eyes. Aedon also appeared baffled, his mouth opening and closing, and no sound coming out. Edythe leaned forward, her eyes on Eleanor.
“After the Imirillian soldiers took me to Zarbadast,” Eleanor said to the unsteady rhythm of her pulse, “I was ordered to be put to death. But, in an effort to save my life, Prince Basaal convinced his father that he had kept me alive to become his wife, arguing that, with me as Queen, their ability to rule over Aemogen would be easier. Upon the emperor’s acceptance,” she continued, “the ceremony took place. On the seventh day of celebration, my escape was executed. If it had not been for Basaal risking his own life, I would be dead now,” she insisted.
“He did not hold me to the marriage,” she continued. “This decision is my own, and it is what I choose. The law states that the royal head of state, the senior monarch, may validate any marriage. And, as there may be those who would argue the Imirillian ceremony is null,” Eleanor said, taking a stubborn breath, “I validate it.”
Noise erupted. Aedon’s mouth moved again, but still he did not speak. Rather, he stood stunned and silent. Crispin’s head was still bent. The rest of the council appeared to be balancing between reaction and reason, payment and pardon. Eleanor’s body began to shake, and she looked to Edythe for encouragement. Her sister was clutching the arms of her chair, but she met Eleanor’s eyes, her worry evident.
Finally, Aedon turned and then half shifted back towards Eleanor. “Penalty for Prince Basaal’s actions is death,” he said. “In your role as officer on his behalf, you must present the terms of pardon that we are to consider, if the council feels to offer mercy.”
“The terms I would set forth are these: Prince Basaal would be accepted as my husband, in all considerations save the title and power of king. After the war has ended, he will spend several months traveling among and serving the people of this nation, asking their forgiveness and paying his debts. He will be called Prince Basaal,” she added. “The people of Common Field will have the greatest claim on his penance. He will provide this service under the direction of one chosen to enforce his parole. If he does this and the council of fen lords accept his debt as paid, he will become a full member of the royal household, attain the title of His Majesty the King, and receive all powers and privileges of being so.”
“I would offer myself to supervise his parole,” Thayne said as he stood in his place among the fen lords who sat watching the trial. “This young prince is my kin, and I take deep interest in his welfare.”
Eleanor nodded, and so did Aedon, albeit slowly.
“The argument and terms have been laid out,” Aedon said, turning towards the council members behind him. “I ask for your votes and your reasons. Take what time you need.”
Once, perhaps twice, Eleanor looked in Basaal’s direction, but he gave no hint, no sign of emotion. He stood impassive, statuesque, waiting for the votes to be cast, giving no indication as to his opinion of Eleanor’s defense.
Eleanor knew that, despite what anyone else thought, she had answered for her own integrity. Would Basaal see it that way? Would a life in Aemogen not be better than death? She pressed her fingers against the mark on her forearm.
The murmurs of the councillors were the only sounds in the throne room. At length, all the votes had been written down, and then the men of the council waited as Aedon invited them to stand, one by one, and read their decisions.
Catton stood first. “Penalty of death,” he said, “for invasion without provocation and for deception equaling treason.”
Sean followed him. “Acceptance of pardon,” Sean said, “for service to crown and country of Aemogen while trying to keep a foreign power at bay.”
Then Briant cleared his throat. “Acceptance of pardon,” Briant said, “for reasons just stated and for the honor of his intent.”
The fen councilor of Quickly stood next. ‘Penalty of death,” he said and then sat back down with no further explanation. Ten more votes were cast: five for death, five for pardon. So they stood even—seven and seven. Crispin was the last to stand. He looked down at his paper, visibly angry.
“The defendant has broken the law of Aemogen,” Crispin said. “He also has sought to protect a nation not his own. He is responsible for Aemogen blood that was shed, but his actions have also spared the people of Aemogen from the full outcome of the intended war, at least for now,” Crispin added.
“He has committed the equivalent of treason and deceit against the reigning monarch of Aemogen,” Crispin continued. “He has also gone to great lengths to spare the queen’s life and restore her to her throne and people. He is the queen’s husband,” he said and then paused, looking up at Eleanor then at the council. “It is no simple case,” Crispin added. “May God have mercy on us all if I have chosen wrong: acceptance of pardon.” With that, Crispin crumpled his judgment and let it fall to the table. Then he turned and exited the throneroom without looking back.
Eleanor tried to speak, but her astonishment caught the words in her throat. She half turned, looking back at Basaal’s face. His expression was frozen, obscure. Everyone was silent, unmoving. Fen lords, observers, even some of Eleanor’s own council walked a fine line between amazement and a sticky disapproval.
Aedon cleared his throat and stood again. “The judgment falls as such: seven votes for death, eight for pardon,” he said. “I declare Prince Basaal pardoned by the Aemogen High Court, and, upon completion of his penance, offered full standing as a citizen and as a monarch of Aemogen.” Aedon turned towards Basaal. “Now, you must kneel and swear your fidelity to the queen.”
Eleanor blanched. She had forgotten that Basaal, once accepted as an Aemogen subject, would need swear his fidelity to her crown. Now there was a visible response on his face: shock, blind shock—and betrayal. Basaal cut a glance towards her, his eyes sweeping over her person disbelievingly.
“You must kneel and swear your fidelity,” Aedon repeated more quietly.
When Basaal dropped to his knees, his eyes unblinking and bare, he was visibly defeated, stripped, and Eleanor could hardly watch. Looking as if the Illuminating God had abandoned him with this divisive trick, his chin fell to his chest and his shoulders slouched. Basaal looked utterly alone. Pressing his lips together, Basaal stared at the chains around his wrists before lifting his eyes to Eleanor’s face. He seemed stricken as he fumbled for the words. “I swear it—” he began.
“Please,” Eleanor held up a hand, unable to watch him kneel before her any longer. “That is sufficient.” She turned away from him, returning to her throne as endless noises filled the hall.
Aedon ordered the palace guard to give him the key to Basaal’s chains, and then, with it in his hands, he stepped forward, treating the prince with visible respect, lifting the stunned Basaal to his feet. When he inserted the key and twisted it in the lock, the shackles fell in a series of cold sounds as they crashed onto the gray stone.
Sean brought a hastily written declaration before Eleanor, which she signed, her cheeks burning. Then the council put their names beneath Eleanor’s signature. Aedon had been speaking quietly to Basaal.
“My Prince,” he said loud enough for her to hear, “allow me to escort you to some chambers where you might rest.” Basaal nodded, rubbing his wrist, looking dazed. And he would not look at her. He followed Aedon away from the astonished din of the throne room.
Once they were gone, Eleanor stood and, without looking at a single person, left the residue of the trial behind.
He was standing before the window, arms folded, shoulders hunched as if protecting himself from a wind that was not there. In the chamber of the red suite, large windows stretched along the entire western wall. Only Basaal’s shadow, framed in one tall arch, broke the pattern of sunlight melting onto the rich furnishings. These rooms had belonged to her parents. Eleanor took a few hesitant steps towards him and then stopped. Hearing the rustling of her gown, Basaal twisted his face toward Eleanor. His eyes were rimmed red, his expression, dark.
“What have you done to me?” he said, but the fierceness of Basaal’s voice caught on itself. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve and turned back towards the window. Eleanor took a half step back. Basaal’s anger was palpable, his sorrow, unbearable. “What fate is this?” he demanded. “Is the Illuminating God so angry, so displeased, that he would damn me to this prison?” His words were weighed in anger.
Eleanor blinked back the emotion, her own breath catching on the unruly pain beside her heart. She swallowed. When she responded, her tone was both challenge and sympathy. “What would you have had me do?”
Basaal unfolded his arms and turned towards her. His stance was intimidating, and his face full of pain.
“Condemn me!” Basaal yelled, lifting his hands before him like a beggar. “Declare my guilt, and hang me! Give me rest, an end to the misery of this existence!” Eleanor flinched, and he continued. “Or, if your good conscience must see me spared, let the condemnation fall, and then help me escape before the sentence is carried out so that I might disappear completely. I could leave, be gone, far from all of this, far from my father!” Basaal was breathing hard, his eyes set, his jaw tight. He covered his face with his hands. They were shaking. “This is not my life, Eleanor. This is not my life.”
Eleanor ran her fingers along the scars on her wrist, fighting her wounded anger. “There is a standard that I hold myself to as Queen, Basaal. If I make a decision, it cannot be in the night, deceiving my own people, sneaking you away to safety against the justice of my country. Your life could either have been forfeit or have been saved—if I interceded with an argument strong enough.”
She looked down at the floor. “There was no other argument strong enough, and my conscience demanded that I spare you.” Eleanor took a breath and raised her eyebrows as she again countered his angry stare. “I am sorry you feel marriage to me and life in Aemogen to be such a damnation. But, I would rather face that lonely existence than walk the rest of my days with your blood on my hands, knowing that I should have done otherwise.” Eleanor narrowed her eyes and shook her head, letting accusation fill her voice. “Can you not remember Zarbadast, Basaal? Do you hold me to a standard you struggled to hold yourself? As if I,” she raised her voice, “should have less compunction sending you to your death than you did sending me?” Eleanor let the question hang before saying, “Spare as you are spared. Those are the words of your Illuminating God, and I have done so to good conscience.”
Basaal’s angry expression creased in confusion, but she paid his wordless question no mind.
“But I tell you this,” Eleanor continued as her chest rose and fell, her heart beating a hollow drum. “I will hold you honor bound to remain in Aemogen until this conflict is resolved so that my people may know that you did not use this pardon to fight against them. I will hold you to that, and, by your seven stars, it will be done. But, after we have won this war, you are free.” Eleanor cut her hand through the air venomously as a warm tear slid around her cheekbone, growing cold as it eased under her jaw and rested on her neck.
“Disappear,” she added, lifting her chin. “Go far, far away. I can bear the shame, the embarrassment, Basaal. So bide your time until then, and then leave me to my work.”
***
Every emotion inside Basaal came to a head as he watched the tear run down Eleanor’s face. The words she spoke had hit him hard, reverberating into the folds of raw pain within his chest. A voice inside him, some decent plea, told him to tell Eleanor how he had kept the thought of her closer than any other, told him to lay down his wrath and cross the space between them. It whispered he should tell her of his regard—of his love. But Basaal shook his head in response and did none of these things. She had already stolen his fidelity, and he felt the victim for it.
“Some courage you have,” he spat back bitterly instead. “Arranged what you must behind my back, and I hear of it only after you’ve changed my life, only after you’ve made a quick theft of my allegiance.” His eyes turned harder, colder. “You had not even taken thought that I might need to hear of Dantib’s death from your own lips! You sent a messenger. What cowardice is that?” he practically roared. “You owed me better than that!”
“What did you want me to say?” Her fire-filled words flayed the space between them.
“I want to know how he died!” Basaal said as he threw up his arms. “You knew what he meant to me. Do you have the courage to tell me? Do you have the courage to speak the words?”
Color rose in Eleanor’s cheeks. She pulled her head back like he had struck her face. He watched her almost falter, until, narrowing her eyes, she tossed the words at him as if he were begging for scraps, her lips quivering. “He was torn apart by wild dogs.” Emotion threatened to tangle up her speech, and her face shifted in pain. Basaal swore. He shook his head, disbelieving. But, as he opened his mouth, she lifted a shaking hand to silence him. “Don’t you dare make me relive that day! Don’t you dare blame me for being unable to tell you about the abominations of that place! I cannot sleep for the memory of it in my head.”
Stunned, angry, Basaal took a step back. Her hurt expression gave him no mercy, no comfort, and he felt too raw to offer her any. He turned back towards the window and stretched his arms between the pillars on either side, staring into the blinding afternoon sunlight, trying to block the image of Dantib’s death from his mind.
Basaal could hardly believe Eleanor’s cruelty. He would not even think about his own.
He did not look back when he heard her leave.
***
A hasty feast was organized to celebrate the queen’s marriage the following evening. The council thought it best they celebrate as a show of good faith. For the people—and the councillors—who were confused and, in part, disapproving. Eleanor sanctioned the event with a wave of her hand, but she spent the day as she had the entire evening before, locked in her rooms, admitting no one.
Aedon had come through, once. But he appeared so taken aback by the fire behind Eleanor’s eyes that he tread carefully.
“Was the prince comfortable in the red suite last night?” she snapped.
Aedon watched her with a frown. “From what I hear, he took himself back down to the dungeon, making it clear that he knew his place and would be quite comfortable in it.”
Eleanor flushed but tried to respond lightly. “I see that marriage has brought out the worst in both of us. Though I am not surprised.”
Aedon dropped his eyebrows, questioning her brash tone.
“I said some truly awful things,” Eleanor said, looking away from Aedon’s steady gaze. “So he publicly humiliates me—and deservedly so.”
“No,” Aedon said calmly, yet with force. “Not deservedly so. Yet—” he hesitated.
“Speak.” Eleanor shot the word at her dearest friend. “I can always see when you’re waiting to say something.”
“Speak freely?”
“You always have before.”
“Not regarding matters of your marriage, Your Majesty,” Aedon said, using his formal tone to make a statement. “Not on matters that are meant to be worked out privately.
“And?”
“And, you better do it soon for the sake of the country you are about to lead into the most dangerous battle of its history. Tonight is your chance to win your people to this alliance. Many of the most influential men and women in your country will be present to celebrate this union, which is a good deal from them. Consi
der the implications if the two of you are seen warring,” Aedon tilted his head to the side and scowled. “This is not you, Eleanor. This is not you. Obviously, you’ve sustained a great deal of hurt and pain. I am sorry for that. Now, center yourself, and act as you know you should. The sooner you find your compassion, the sooner he will find his.”
Eleanor closed her eyes but a moment. Aedon’s words set off an emotional tug-of-war, and she was so weary of the internal fray. The hardness that had formed inside her chest wasn’t her. It had stripped her of what she had considered two of her greatest strengths as a monarch: her empathy, and compassion. But the stone anchors of pride and hurt felt immovable inside her stomach. And Eleanor was so tired.
“What word today from Thistle Black?” Eleanor asked, trying to pass over Aedon’s advice. “I assume he has gone back to work after cooling his head in the Aemogen dungeon for a day.”
Aedon cleared his throat. “With the additional materials from the south, he feels that we will be ready for the attack come time to leave. In tomorrow’s council meeting, there will be more specifics. Crispin, as you know, has the men in continual training, and the final companies of soldiers from the south will be at camp within the next five days.”
“Thank you, Aedon,” Eleanor said before bending her head over her work again.
***
Eleanor dismissed everyone save Edythe as she finished her preparations for the dinner. Upon Edythe’s quiet insistence, Eleanor agreed to wear her mother’s gown, the wedding gown. White, delicate, with an elegant gold trim and design, falling gracefully around her body—it was the most flawless thing their mother had ever owned. Eleanor felt immeasurably sad as she put it on. But if she did not wear it to celebrate her wedding people would wonder, so, to add credence to her decision, she wore the gown.
If Edythe had heard any rumors of disapproval regarding Eleanor’s choice to defend Basaal she showed no sign as she prepared Eleanor for the banquet. She even obliged when Eleanor requested no braids. So her hair was drawn up into carefully placed curls, accentuated with small, crisp white spring flowers. Around her neck hung a beautiful necklace of gold in the form of the sweet vine, which had belonged to her mother.
