by Beth Brower
“Thy way through sand and stone,” he repeated aloud several times. “Thy way through sand and—” But, before Basaal could end his oblations, a feeling surged across his shoulders, a feeling of recognition, of familiarity. Then the feeling gave way to the briefest glimpse of an image: Basaal, standing with Aedon and Crispin, his sword in hand. He blinked and opened his eyes. He shook his head and stared towards the river. His own mind, surely, had conjured up the image. The picture was gone now, but it had felt so real that Basaal looked down at his hand to make sure he was not actually gripping his sword.
***
It did not take long for the clatter and clamor of training to slow to a stop when Basaal stepped onto the field. He felt like a stone thrown into a thick, muddy pond, its repercussion an ungraceful intrusion. Perhaps he should not have come.
“Prince Basaal,” Crispin said as he came through the crowd, his cheeks red from training. As he approached, the war leader bowed his head in an articulate nod but did not bend at the waist. “How can I be of service to you?” Crispin seemed too tired to be calculably dismissive, but there was no warmth in his words.
A furtive glance at the men told Basaal their conflicting feelings about him were still bright.
“I had written my thoughts regarding your plans,” Basaal said, “before I left for Common Field.”
“I received them,” Crispin replied.
“Good.” Basaal looked about at the faces of the men, who were watching the exchange. “I think you may have a solid chance at it.”
The war leader did not respond until Basaal’s silence forced him to. “Was there anything else, Prince?”
“I’m too idle,” Basaal said and then paused, his fingers pressed against the hilt of his sword. “And, it would please me to keep my training fresh. Might I join in with you for this morning’s exercises?”
Crispin rubbed his chin and stepped closer. “I’m certain you might do anything you would wish, Prince. Although, I cannot say if it is really best for the men—or yourself.”
“I can cover my own back, as you well know,” Basaal said as he stared Crispin in the eye. Then, lowering his voice so that only the young war leader could hear his words, Basaal added, “Unless it makes you nervous to have me here, witnessing your training, worried that I’ll run back to the emperor with all your secrets.” Basaal looked down at his left forearm as he checked to see if his Safeeraah was secure. “Well, rest your fears. My honor now binds me here, and I will not leave Aemogen before the battle is complete.”
“Before?” Crispin replied sternly. “And after?”
Like a warhorse under the threat of demotion, Basaal pulled his chin up sharply and narrowed his eyes at the young war leader.
“You step beyond your mark,” Basaal hissed. “What goes on between the queen and myself does not concern you. Don’t let it happen again.”
They glared at one another, all of Crispin’s discipline working hard to keep him from spitting in Basaal’s face. He forced himself to chew on the inside of his lip instead and did not speak. Basaal raised his eyebrows, his mouth hinting at a smile. Basaal realized he had sounded like his father, and he relished the ease of using a tone that would silence almost anybody; he hated himself for using it on someone he would still wish to consider a friend.
“Do you have a man willing to fight?” Basaal continued, trying to sound patient, although he was not—he did not need to stand here, begging for a partner.
Crispin breathed out slowly and tilted his head while allowing his boyish grin to cover his anger. “I’ll see if I can find you a worthy partner.”
Five minutes later, Basaal stood with his sword drawn, looking down at a trembling fourteen-year-old boy, holding a pathetic excuse for a weapon. A crowd had gathered, but Basaal’s black mood held them off, and they watched from a distance.
“So, you are my worthy opponent,” Basaal said matter-of-factly.
The boy’s eyes went wide, and he stuttered out an attempt to explain that he was no kind of expert. The amusement of watching the boy’s terror held Basaal from speaking for only a moment before he chided himself for his meanness and gave the boy a reassuring appraisal.
“No need to explain yourself,” Basaal said. “We can run through some exercises and see where you are.” Basaal hesitated before continuing. “From what fen do you come?” he asked. “I believe I must have seen you last year, during the battle run.”
“Rye Field fen, Your Majesty,” the young man said, stumbling over the address with uncertainty. “I am called Tarit.”
“Tarit?” Basaal rolled the name over his memory. “You’re not the potter, are you?”
Obvious pleasure spread a shy smile across the young man’s face. “I showed you about my potter’s shed.”
“Yes, I remember. I owe you some glazes, don’t I?” Basaal said as he remembered his promise. “After all this, I shall see it done. Now, I am in desperate need of training. Will you oblige?”
Tarit’s timidity was chased away by Basaal’s crisp instructions as the pair began to work through the same sword exercises he had taught the young man the summer before. After this disciplined practice of technique, he began an open spar, and Tarit threw his whole heart into the exercise. The young man had improved, and Basaal asked if he had been training.
“My mother made me work at it every day,” Tarit explained, “because she wants me to come back alive.”
***
Later that afternoon, Aedon found Basaal still on the training grounds, working with a small but willing group of men. It felt much like the battle run had, save that Crispin and his top officers stayed apart from the impromptu training for most of the day. There were also many men acting offish and grumbling, willing to serve accusatory glares in his direction rather than join in his instruction. But his small and eager group satisfied Basaal nonetheless. When the prince saw Aedon, he pulled himself away from a scrimmage and greeted the councillor.
“Aedon,” Basaal said as he extended his hand.
“Prince,” Aedon replied, bowing first before shaking Basaal’s hand. Aedon motioned for Basaal to walk with him, so Basaal gave training instructions to the men before falling into step beside Aedon.
“I am glad to see that you’ve come out today,” Aedon admitted.
“Adding one to the small number who are pleased with the idea,” Basaal answered as he pulled at his collar in the heat of the day. “I’ll not deny that I’ve enjoyed the drills and the interactions with the few men willing to associate with me. I have yet to be run through, at the very least.”
“Yes.” Aedon laughed. “Aside from Crispin’s frigid temperatures and the general suspicion of the soldiers—whom you yourself trained very effectively, I might add—do you find yourself feeling more accustomed to life at Ainsley Rise?”
Basaal shrugged but did not answer. They were at the edge of camp now, standing before a spring meadow of green grasses.
“What is it you would like to speak to me about?” Basaal asked as he stopped and turned, his hand resting on his sword more from habit than from thought.
Aedon scanned Basaal’s face.
“If this is about myself and Eleanor—” Basaal broke off, trying to fight the faint bristle he’d heard in his own words.
“No,” Aedon responded immediately. “Only a fool would walk a second time into that burning barn. And, of the many things I am, I do not believe a fool to be one of them.”
Basaal’s face relaxed, and he crossed his arms. “Burning barn?”
“It’s an expression, not a prediction,” Aedon replied immediately. “I have come for something that I had hoped you would have volunteered by now.”
“Speak.”
“Your leadership,” Aedon said.
The words stuck to Basaal’s skin uncomfortably.
“Go on,” he said. “Be blunt about it.”
“I can abbreviate it for you,” Aedon replied evenly. “You, Prince Basaal, live by honor. From our many co
nversations, both last year and since your return, I know you do not believe in the aggressive tactics of your father to conquer this and other lands. You hate war and its results, although you do love fighting, and I have yet to reconcile that—” Aedon added plainly before continuing. “So, here you are, bound to Aemogen and to Eleanor by this honor. Is it really your intention to sit at Ainsley Rise as we march out to fight? If this is your plan, I would ask you to reconsider for the sake of said honor. Join with us to defend our sovereignty.”
“I am only one man,” Basaal replied.
“You are one thousand men in the eyes of those you have trained. Whether they can forgive you for it or not, they cannot leave the image of who you are aside. You are more than one soldier, you are practically…” Aedon lost his words, looking frustrated.
“Immortal. A demigod,” Basaal answered ironically.
Aedon’s face looked blank for a moment before a humorous expression crossed it. “I suppose that is one way to say it. Yes. Quite accurate.” He laughed. “Although—”
“Although, you would never have said it that way,” Basaal guessed.
“No.”
“Neither would Eleanor.” Basaal sighed. “And what of her leadership?”
“It is there, unbroken,” Aedon answered immediatly. “But her work for your pardon has created a distance, an unsettling feeling among some of the people. If the two of you were to unite for Aemogen, not only would it create the kind of power I believe we need to have any hope in this battle but also the people would forgive her, praise her even, for sparing your life. You would become a king who could stand with our queen.”
“You would have me go into battle against my own army? You would ask me to cut down the men whom I have been responsible for? What of them and the lives of their families?”
“I am asking you to consider it, yes,” Aedon confirmed bluntly.
“This is hell.” Basaal moved his hands to his hips and looked at the ground, spitting into the grass as he weighed Aedon’s words. “I will admit to you,” he finally said. “I’ve already been wrestling with this question since I returned from Common Field. I will also admit that Eleanor has promised me my freedom, if I so choose, once the battle has been decided. I have made no promises to her that I will stay and become King.” He caught Aedon’s eyes as he spoke truthfully. “Did she tell you that?”
“No,” Aedon said, and his face creased. “Yet, I don’t feel surprised by the revelation.”
“The burning barn,” Basaal said, kicking the dirt as these words came slowly from his mouth.
“It’s an expression, Basaal, nothing more.”
“I only wonder.” Basaal took a deep breath. “Was it the moon or the sun that set it ablaze? Something to think about.”
Basaal turned away from Aedon, returning to Tarit and the others, who were sitting and standing now in a circle. Settling himself down beside the boy, Basaal joined the casual round of conversation while the image he had seen of himself—standing between Aedon and Crispin, his sword drawn—worked circles around his mind.
Chapter Thirteen
That night, when Eleanor again found herself wandering into the throne room, a figure was already draped across her throne. When she did not say anything, Basaal spoke.
“Your throne is more comfortable than mine.”
“Is that a symbolic observation?” Eleanor asked.
Basaal replied with a low laugh, and then he straightened himself. “I can move if you would like, but I believe there is room for us both.”
Eleanor almost thought to turn back around and return to bed, but he had sounded like he had in Zarbadast. And, after watching the shadows on his face, she sighed and stepped onto the dais. Basaal lifted his left arm to give her room, placing it around her shoulders as she settled in next to him. It felt like coming home, the pressure of his body against hers.
“I just lost a wager with myself,” he admitted. “I assumed you would return to your rooms.”
“It was tempting,” Eleanor admitted, yawning, half wondering if Hannia would come rushing into the throne room to send them off to sleep. “I should return and force myself asleep.” The air in his lungs shifted, and Eleanor felt the pressure of his chest against her shoulder as he prepared himself to speak.
“Stay awhile with me.”
The words webbed out across every dark corner of the throne room before returning to her in a single, soft entreaty. Eleanor took them in with no effort to shield herself from the emotion of it. Stay with me, she wished to reply.
Eleanor lifted her hand to rest on his chest, and, in response, Basaal pulled her tighter against him as if they had finally given themselves permission to care for each other again.
“As I left the training fields today,” Basaal said, “I passed a man whom I’d met last year. He lives with his wife here in Ainsley, a shoemaker by trade. I went to shake hands, and he refused me.”
“Hmm,” Eleanor said sleepily, turning her face in closer to Basaal. “Did he say why?”
“Oh, I am sure you can guess the reasons. Betrayal leaves an acidic residue, does it not?” He rested his chin on the top of her head and breathed out slowly. “He is also bitter because, during his last tour serving at the pass, he was caught by an Imirillian arrow, straight through his hand.”
Wincing, Eleanor looked at her own hand, resting just below Basaal’s collarbone. “No bones were broken, apparently,” Basaal continued. “But the head of the arrow had been dipped in poison, so he’d had to get an amputation to spare his life.”
“And so he would not greet you?” Eleanor repeated.
“No, he would not,” Basaal said. “‘Are we not friends?’ I asked him. But Haide—that is his name—just laughed. ‘Hang me if you want, Prince, but I’ll not bow down to the likes of you.’ And then he was off, carrying his sword with his useless left hand.”
“Does this man now have any way to support his family?” Eleanor asked.
“I couldn’t say.”
The darkness hung about them, and Eleanor kept trying to say that when they returned from the war—if they returned—she would see the shoemaker taken care of. But sleep weighed in her bones, and Basaal’s presence was so peaceful. And she needed him to stay.
“There is something I wanted to speak with you about,” he said, his voice sounding far away. She thought she moved, acknowledged what he had said, but Eleanor was too close to sleep to know for certain. “Remember,” he said softly, “there is something I must speak with you about.”
***
In the early morning, Eleanor woke to find herself in her own bed. Basaal must have carried her. A sliver of the memory played at the edges of her consciousness. He may have even kissed her, but she was not certain. Not wanting to leave the warmth of her bed, yet knowing that sleep was gone, Eleanor decided to retrieve the reports from her desk and bring them back into the bedroom.
As she entered the gray-lit audience chamber, she saw that Basaal was fast asleep on the sofa near the fire. “Basaal,” Eleanor whispered, and he stirred. “Basaal.” The prince did not open his eyes but turned to face Eleanor, folding his arms tightly against his chest for the chill of the spring morning.
“I must fight,” he answered, still half asleep. “I was told I must fight for Aemogen. And I promised I would.” The words tumbled painfully from his tired lips, and he sank back into sleep.
***
The news burst upon them like a whirlwind or a gale out from the sea. And, when Eleanor thought about it later, she was glad that days of endless rain had accompanied the tidings. The fen rider who had brought the news was wet and chilled through, but the fire in his own eyes had been warmth sufficient. His news was that Emperor Shaamil had sent a small envoy to negotiate with the queen.
“Crispin was worried if he waited for Your Majesty’s approval, it would be too late to both receive the envoy and to make for the Maragaide valley by the appointed day,” the fen rider explained. “But, if we received th
e envoy immediately, they could come and be gone before we were set to march out. And, this would only increase our chances that the emperor would have no notion of the attack, seeing as how we could send back false information. Hoping to speak in your name, Crispin agreed that they might send six men, blindfolded the entire three-day ride, to Ainsley Rise. So, they set out yesterday morning and will be here tomorrow.”
“Why would Shaamil be sending an envoy into Aemogen?” Eleanor asked aloud. She did not look at her council but at Basaal, who sat silent nearby.
“Did he specifically say it was to negotiate?” Basaal asked the fen rider.
“That was the implication,” the fen rider answered, “but never in so many words. Crispin believes it is an intimidation tactic that we can turn for our own benefit.”
“They will come under the banner of negotiation, but their terms will all be used for intimidation and the advantage of Zarbadast,” Basaal said, crossing his arms and feeling caught. “If you are too subservient, your behavior will be suspect. Better to appear brash and defiant. Then the message they take back to Emperor Shaamil will be one of ignorance and pride.”
“How are we to bring a delegation of six men into Ainsley, the heart of our military encampment?” Sean asked, worried. “We cannot hide three thousand soldiers.”
“I assume this is why Crispin demanded that they be blindfolded,” Eleanor replied.
“And, we can suspend all training on the day the delegation is in Ainsley, keeping the delegation within windowless rooms, under constant guard. It can be done,” Aedon confirmed confidently.
“Let them come,” Eleanor consented. “We will plan what we want Emperor Shaamil to think of us.”
***
Eleanor had assumed Basaal would be willing to sit on a throne beside her when the Imirillian delegates were given an audience. But he said he would not.
“There is nothing for me to consider,” Basaal argued. “You are asking me to openly declare myself as your ally before my father’s delegation. No. I will not do that. I refuse to even be in the room.”
