by Beth Brower
Eleanor pressed her palms against her desk and tried again. “I am asking you to stand beside me.”
“You are asking me to cause confusion, questions, and intimidation by being present.”
“Those would be secondary benefits,” Eleanor stated honestly. “But I want you beside me, first and foremost, for your support, your strength, your help to read the situation. You know what to watch for.”
Basaal shifted in his chair, his arms crossed stubbornly, then dismissed himself from the queen’s rooms without so much as another word.
“I am only asking him to consider the idea,” Eleanor said impatiently when she spoke with Aedon later, reiterating the reasonableness of the request she’d made to Basaal. Thunder sounded off the windows, but the constant rainstorms that had been washing over Ainsley for the last two days were now letting up to become dismal drizzles.
“You are not asking him to consider it,” Aedon countered as she shuffled through the reports from the pass. “You are telling him to do as you wish.”
“That’s untrue.” Eleanor threw herself against the back of her chair, staring at the window. “I wish he would reconsider,” Eleanor finally said, staring back at the papers on her desk, drumming her fingers.
“Is it really that important?” Aedon asked fairly. “As a matter of state?”
“No.” It was not, she admitted to herself. Eleanor could face the delegation with her own mastery of the Imirillian language. Eleanor knew her craft, and she did not need Basaal to sit beside her. But she wanted him to.
“I know,” Aedon said although she had not spoken her desires. “I wish he would.”
Later, she found Basaal in the dark gray of late afternoon, walking the western battlements, inconsiderate of the wind and the threat of returning rain. Once he saw that Eleanor had stepped out onto the wall, Basaal leaned against the stone battlement, waiting for her to come to him. He pulled his cloak tighter, against the chill. She stopped beside him, looking towards the west, where no hint of evening light broke the gray sky.
“Will you not stand beside me?” Eleanor asked again, as the fierce wind swept her skirts.
“Consider it a free lesson in Imirillian statecraft,” Basaal said, and he pulled back from the battlement as he continued to watch the heavy gray clouds spin across the western downs. “You are always alone when choice and consequence come up against each other. It matters not who stands beside you in your life or how much they can give. There always comes a point where you are alone against the challenges you face.”
A split of lightning was followed by the drum-deep sound of thunder, rolling out over the green field.
“You confuse me,” Eleanor said, her voice unwavering, her expression as tempestuous as the sky. “You place peculiar limits that I don’t understand. ” The clouds spilled open, and rain began to fall hard over Ainsley. Eleanor did not look away from Basaal’s face despite the downpour. “Having a relationship with someone, friendship or love, means standing by them, standing present, even if those you stand with must face certain realities alone.”
The wind spit the rain in their faces, and, finally, Basaal turned with a conflicted expression towards Eleanor. “You are asking me to come and stand before a delegation from my father and appear as if I have chosen Aemogen willingly.” Squinting against the heavy rain, he brushed the water away from his face. Basaal flinched as Eleanor threw her arms up in frustration.
“You said, just three days ago, that the Imirillian invasion was unjust!” she shouted above the sound of the rain. “That, to satisfy the Illuminating God, you would stand and give yourself to Aemogen’s defense!”
“And, by the seven stars, I will!” Basaal cursed, shouting back. “You know I will!”
“But you will not stand with me now,” Eleanor cried. “I do not think I can face this war on my own, Basaal.”
He took a step closer to the Eleanor and pointed towards the castle. “You have all the others! You have Aedon and Crispin and Edythe—the entire country is standing with you!” Basaal spread his hands out before him. “What difference could I possibly make?”
“Is there nothing I can say to persuade you?” Eleanor gulped back her emotions before continuing. “The strength you give me—”
She brought her hands down on the wet stone of the battlement before her and looked away from him, towards the north. The high mountains of the Arimel could not be seen, cloaked in the deepening gray of the afternoon. Eleanor was wet through, and she began to shiver as the wind increased. She knew it was unfair to ask so much of him and that, perhaps the only strength he had left he needed for himself.
“I’m sorry.” The wind carried Basaal’s words off his lips, but Eleanor heard them clear enough. “I cannot stand with you.”
Eleanor turned and watched as Basaal tucked his shoulders against the rain and moved south along the battlements towards the travelers’ house. The muscles in Eleanor’s face tightened beneath her eyes, and then she, making a defeated sound, went north.
***
The next morning, Basaal took himself to the river. Running low and calm, it was nothing like the river of the year before. What had then been tumbling and fervent was now quiet, an omen for little water for the year ahead. He paced along the bank, tracing his own footsteps up and down the entire morning.
The birds of the day seemed quite unaware of his mood and continued their pleasantries as he paced in the long grass and thought of Eleanor. He wanted to stand with her, as they had done in Zarbadast, but he could not commit himself to the declaration this would make. As unfair as his forced exile was in comparison with Eleanor’s futile attempts to save her small country. His heart felt still and hard and, as much as he hated to admit it to himself, sad.
And he knew his sadness would dictate the distance again growing between them.
Emaad found him, sitting morosely near the riverbank.
“You missed evening meal last night.”
“So it would seem,” Basaal said as he flicked the blade of grass he wove between his fingers into the river.
“You were always ridiculous when sulking,” Emaad challenged, glaring at Basaal with stubborn affection in his eyes. “Stand up.”
“Why?” But Basaal stood when Emaad did not respond to his question.
“You refuse to close any path,” Emaad said. “It is a weakness. It will always keep you between the places you should be.”
“Pardon?” Basaal looked towards his brother, confused.
“Your whole life, your summer here in Aemogen, Eleanor’s escape from Zarbadast…. Does it surprise you that here you are, living the consequence of your balancing game between honor and what you have always known? For a freeman, you have imprisoned yourself by refusing to declare where you will stand.”
“I’ve never been a freeman,” Basaal said, his laugh a clip of anger.
Emaad shook his head and then did what he thought best, he hit Basaal as hard as he knew how. The younger brother reeled backward. Basaal didn’t cry out in pain but found himself smiling as he recovered himself, dabbing the blood away from his split lip. He could feel the numb swelling against his gums.
“You want to have a go at it then?” Basaal challenged good-naturedly.
“You’ve spent your entire life balancing, balancing between Father, our religion, your conscience, the rights of others. Well, there comes a time when you have to choose a side. But you waited.” Emaad paused, looking calm. “You waited, trying to do what was honorable—I know—but sooner or later a decision would have to be made. You refused to make it, and so, life had to do it for you,” he said. “Now, here you are. You have drawn the line and find yourself on the opposite side of the emperor.” Emaad laughed and fingered the line on his neck. “Is that really a surprise? The reason you’ve played this game your whole life is because you could never stomach the idea of becoming the man he is!”
Basaal was getting agitated. He pressed his fingers against his lip and took them away. On
his fingers, the blood formed patterns in bright red: the symbol of Basaal’s house, surrounded with a thousand representations of the wanderer’s mark. He smeared the blood and looked back at his brother. “Why must everyone have an opinion about what I must do with my life?”
“You want my opinion?” Emaad asked. “You can’t stay in Zarbadast. You know that. I see it in your face. Where would you go, otherwise, but here? Wander around the Continent, living a shiftless life? You would be racked with guilt. Your honor would haunt you every night. So, you have now what you would have chosen anyway. Give yourself,” Emaad urged. “Give yourself to Aemogen. You no longer need to hold anything back. You have chosen your side, and, whether you recognize it or not, it is what you would have eventually wished you had chosen. Stop moping.”
“I’m not moping,” Basaal said in anguish. “I’m mourning.”
He opened his eyes to find blackness. It was night, and the fire in Eleanor’s audience chamber had gone out. Yes, Basaal remembered, he had come back from the travelers’ house after Eleanor was already asleep.
He sat up, breathing hard, his heart racing. A dream. He sat against the couch and leaned his head back in relief. He yawned, but it was at a cost, for his mouth stung. Basaal lifted a finger to his lip. When he brought it away and moved his fingers towards the moonlight, he could see blood. A chill ran through his spine. He smeared the blood between his fingers, and tried to go back to sleep. Sleep did not come.
***
Eleanor was seated in the throne room, wearing the black velvet gown she had commissioned in Calafort, her hair bound up with the Battle Crown in place. There was no smile on her lips. Her council sat in their places, and several companies of soldiers stood in silent attention, each soldier holding a spear in his hand, the ends of which rested on the stone, pointing to the sky. Edythe met Eleanor’s eye and smiled just as the sound of footsteps caused Eleanor to look back. Prince Basaal, dressed in the most formal clothing he’d acquired in Aemogen, wearing his elegant weaponry of black and pearl. He was clean-shaven, crisp, and someone had split his lip again.
“Pardon my tardiness,” Basaal said once he came before her and bowed. “You know how I suffer for my vanity.”
As he was about to move aside toward his throne, Eleanor reached for his hand. He looked her in the eye, and she swallowed, grateful.
“This is a difficult thing for me.” The words were spoken so lightly that they hardly pushed against the air between them.
“I know,” Eleanor said, almost losing her composure. “Perhaps I was unfair to wish it. But, I thank you.”
Nodding, Basaal took a deep breath. “Are you ready to sound brash and impetuous?”
Eleanor’s face broke into a smile. “With your experience, I don’t doubt our success.” He scanned her face, his resignation showing through the thin mask he wore.
Crispin entered the throne room as Basaal took his seat beside the queen, nodding to Eleanor. The sound of many footsteps clattered in from the corridor. As they waited, Basaal transformed, now appearing casual, almost disinterested. Eleanor met his eyes, and a strained smile was shared between them.
“Reminds me of home.” He spoke in Imirillian so only she could understand. “False confidence, word manipulation—I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”
Two dozen soldiers entered, escorting six men, still blindfolded from their journey. One of the Imirillians was particularly tall, dressed in—what were by now—dusty white robes. Eleanor almost laughed out loud. Ammar. The emperor had sent Ammar.
Six soldiers stepped forward to remove the blindfolds, and Eleanor smiled at the physician once he found her face. The corners of his mouth turned up, and he raised his eyebrows in greeting. Then, as his face wandered from Eleanor to the throne beside her, he froze, and Eleanor saw an expression she didn’t even know the physician possessed: shock.
Drakta, the man whom Eleanor had encountered in Basaal’s tent all those months ago, was the leader of the delegation. Once he saw the prince, he took a step forward, intense hatred for Basaal in his eyes.
Eleanor held out a hand. “You are quite welcome to remain where you are,” she spoke in Imirillian.
Shaamil’s war leader glared. “Hospitable journey this has been.”
“It was not meant to be so,” Eleanor said, sitting up straighter in her throne. “I assume we will conduct our business in Imirillian for the sake of your envoy?”
“We don’t speak your foul language,” Drakta growled back.
“And, what is it the emperor desires you to say. Have you come to announce your surrender?”
Five of the six men in the emissary, the officers and soldiers of Shaamil, laughed. The sixth stood with his hands behind his back, surveying the architecture of the throne room, seeming uninterested in the politics of the moment.
“His Grace, Emperor Shaamil, wishes us to tell you that your defense at the pass is charming, but he is ready to begin the conflict in earnest. With much equanimity, he again offers Aemogen the opportunity to reconsider its position.”
“Under what terms?” Eleanor sounded uninterested.
“The lives of your people, all of the people, would be spared. Yours, of course, would be forfeit as well as the princeling’s, I’d imagine.” Drakta looked at Basaal. “Although, when the emperor hears the tale that his beloved son has gone to join the Aemogen peasants, he may want to take the boy back to Zarbadast for his death.”
“Go to the devil,” Basaal interjected with a challenge in his eyes. “Climb back to your kennel, and remain the emperor’s yapping dog.”
Drakta took a step forward, and every soldier in the room took a step towards Drakta, their spears pointing at the man.
“If you will please refrain from moving,” Eleanor said calmly.
All the emotions he must have controlled for years now shown in Drakta’s face as he stared down Basaal.
“Is that truly all you have come to say, Drakta?” Eleanor said. “It seems a pity to have ridden in such discomfort for days to be so utterly predictable.”
He turned his burning eyes on her. “I come with a warning: If you refuse the emperor now, he will send a force up the pass, swarming like desert dogs into your country. The pass will soon fall, and all of this,” he said, looking up and around the throne room in disgust, “will be gone.”
Eleanor rose, and Basaal followed suit. She took a step down the dais and stood before the war leader. “Well, then, let them come,” she stated slowly. “And you will find that what awaits you in this land is more hellish than you could possibly imagine.”
“Desert dog, indeed,” Basaal sneered as he looked Drakta up and down.
“Uuaahh!” Drakta spun his hand towards the prince. Crispin and his men rushed forward but not before a spray of white was flung into Basaal’s face. Basaal screamed as it hit his eyes. He turned away, cursing.
Guards surrounded Shaamil’s envoy, three of them grabbing Drakta and holding him in place, Aedon was calling for water, and Eleanor rounded on Crispin. “Did you not search them for weapons?”
“We did!” Crispin insisted, before he ordered the envoy be taken to the dungeons.
Basaal was pulling away from any attempt at assistance, swearing whenever touched, his fingers clutching at his eyes. Aedon grabbed Basaal’s arms.
“Take him to my rooms,” Eleanor ordered. Then she sent Crispin a message, requesting the presence of Ammar in her chambers.
***
In the moment after Drakta’s hand shot out, Basaal had fallen back, raising his hands to his face. He tried to open his eyes but could not. A million suns had exploded, and then darkness and pain. He cursed. Voices rang out. Someone called for water, and then there was a scuffle and shouting. The pain increased in sharp bursts, causing Basaal to breathe in suddenly, which he followed with another string of curses. Basaal could not tell who was around him or whose hands steadied his arms. Water was brought, and they began placing cool rags over his eyes as they brought him quickl
y to Eleanor’s chambers.
It was Aedon, Basaal believed, who forced him into a chair and brought a wet rag again to his face.
“Open your eyes,” he commanded.
“I can’t, you bastard,” Basaal retaliated.
“Basaal, hold still!” Edythe said. “That includes your tongue.”
“The physician!” someone said.
“He’s here,” Aedon said, breathing a sigh of relief. Basaal was still in great agony from the pain.
“Your physician is useless,” Basaal snarled as he fought against any assistance. “He used Arillian salts!”
***
“Quiet!” Eleanor said, her voice cutting through the noise, and the clamor stopped. “On Old Ainsley, Basaal, let my man attend to you until Ammar is brought up. Proceed, doctor.”
“I’ve never seen this,” Eleanor’s court physician said, flustered. “But, I suppose I need to wash it out as best I can.”
“I would think so,” Eleanor said urgently, stepping forward, and nodding to Aedon. “Help me, Aedon. Hastian?” Aedon and Hastian pulled Basaal’s hands away from his eyes, and Eleanor forced Basaal’s eyelid open as water was poured directly over his eye.
“Eleanor!” he shouted at her. “By the seven stars, I will never forgive you—”
She ignored him, and, when the physician nodded, they forced open the other eye and repeated the process. Basaal tried to shout, but the water poured into his mouth, and he began to choke.
“So, this is how Imirillian princes are treated in Aemogen,” Ammar said from the doorway, where he stood, bound, with Crispin at his elbow. “I suppose turnabout is fair play,” He added. Eleanor straightened, and Aedon and Hastian both released Basaal. The prince shot forward, sputtering.
The scene that Ammar must have witnessed struck Eleanor as incredibly funny, and she began to laugh.
***
When Basaal woke, it was deep into the night. His eyes throbbed, swollen and burned as they were. Bandages were still in place. As he moved, a groan came from his lips.
Someone touched his cheek softly.
“Sh. Go back to sleep.”
