by Beth Brower
Basaal was now not only ready for the day but also impatient for it to begin. He sorted aimlessly through his remaining possessions brought down from Zarbadast, finding more clothes, empty scrolls, inkwells, and oils. He found a worn copy of the Third Scroll among his things and settled down at the round table in the center of the tent to read. Over an hour later, when the sun broke over the mountains to the east and began creeping down the sides of the pavilion, Eleanor finally stirred.
“Wil?” It was a half-formed word, said before Eleanor had realized where she was. She pulled herself up, and in the morning light, Basaal could see the bruising on her face from where Drakta had hit her the night before. The shame he still felt tugged at the corners of his mouth as he watched Eleanor register the events of the previous day, her aspect hardening as she took in her surroundings. All this he had expected. But, when she looked at him, her eyes traveling across his fine prince’s garb and the weaponry slung over his shoulders, her expression caught him off guard, for her face showed fear.
“Your Majesty,” Basaal spoke somberly.
Eleanor offered him no response but pulled the blanket in front of her as if to increase her modesty. Basaal looked away.
“If you would like to have a moment of privacy,” he said, “to wash and prepare yourself for the day, I can arrange for such.”
He did not look up to see her face, but her answer came quick. “I would.”
Nodding, Basaal stood and motioned towards the unused basin of water. “This water is clean,” he explained. “There is a cloth for your use, as well. I will find what I can of fresh clothing for you and of food.” Basaal walked towards the door of the pavilion. “Remember,” he added, “soldiers surround the tent, Eleanor.”
Then he left Eleanor to herself.
***
“Prince.” Annan was waiting anxiously.
“Annan,” Basaal said, nodding to his friend. “Order our men to keep watch on the pavilion: no one goes in. Then come, walk with me through the camp.”
Annan called quick commands to the standing guard and then fell into step with Basaal.
“Have you already sent a scout to check the pass?” Basaal asked quietly, aware that several of Drakta’s men stood nearby.
“Ashan was sent out first thing this morning,” Annan said. “The cliffsides through the narrowest neck of the pass have completely crumbled into themselves. The pass will be impossible to breach, until we have put months into clearing a sufficient passage for our army to move through in force.”
Basaal considered what his friend told him as he breathed in the still air of morning. The soldiers brought themselves to attention as Basaal passed, watching him with unspoken interest. The prince was a favorite national figure. And, as Basaal noted their faces watching him in wonder and fear, his initial reaction was pleasure. But after that emotion had passed, the image of how people had greeted Eleanor scratched itself across his mind, and Basaal felt agitated in his own skin. He turned back to what Annan was saying.
“What was that, Annan?” Basaal asked.
“Which part?” Annan replied. “You haven’t been listening at all, have you?”
“You were mentioning something about clearing the rubble in the pass,” Basaal hedged.
Annan started over. “Clearing the pass would be monumental work, we will need supplies, animals, rations. And, the local Marions have been saying that winter will come early this year. They say the Aemogen pass is stopped up every winter from snow as it is, let alone the jumble of impassable stone there now.”
“We will winter the army in Marion,” Basaal stated. “There is no sense in sending them on a three-month journey home, only to have them turn around and come straight back come spring, to start clearing the pass. Have the locals said how long the snow lasts?”
Annan put his hands behind his back as they walked. “They say it can be up to six months’ time,” he answered. “Basaal, I do not see how we can winter your entire army here for over half a year.” Annan shrugged. “At the same time, bringing the men home would mean endless travel, which is expensive, in itself.”
“Keeping the army in Marion would not be a great difficulty,” Basaal countered. “You and I would, of course, return to Zarbadast for the winter, with a small company that travels light and fast. We could be there before the day of purification if we pushed ahead.” Basaal’s heart beat at the prospect of returning home.
“And you believe that King Staven will welcome a foreign army eating out of his own storehouses?”
“If we have the gold for it, he’ll have the stomach,” Basaal answered shrewdly. “And, I’ve gold enough to support my own army. We will pass through dear Marion City, on our way to Zarbadast, and pay the king a visit.”
His friend had an odd expression on his face, as if he did not trust Basaal’s plan.
“Why are you looking at me like that, Annan?” Basaal asked.
“I am wondering what your motives are, My Prince,” Annan responded, his words careful.
They had walked the length of the camp, so Basaal turned to face his friend, stopping at the edge of a large field, where hundreds of horses had been staked. “Why do you say that?” Basaal asked under his breath. “What causes you of all people to question my motives?”
“There are rumors among the men in camp,” Annan said. “They say that you have aligned yourself with Aemogen and that bringing down the mountain was your doing. They also say you have let the Aemogen queen turn your head.”
“Ridiculous. You of all people know my personal struggles with this conquest. But, those do not interfere with my duty, and they never will.” Basaal folded his arms and kicked the dirt with the toe of his boot. “What else?” he asked.
Annan looked about them and stepped closer to the prince.
“The Vestan assassins will not let you step to the right or to the left,” he whispered. “This morning, a young horseboy told me that they mean to kill the Aemogen queen if she sways you from your duty to Imirillia. Even Drakta, after you roughed him up in Aemogen, has threatened that if you step away from the emperor’s expectations even one inch, he will see you are brought before Shaamil as prisoner, and he will take your post.”
“Drakta is a fool if he thinks he can outplay me when dealing with the emperor,” Basaal said, trying to quench the anger he was feeling.
“But the Vestan are not fools,” Annan came back, earnest and concerned. “They are ruthless, receiving little censure for their acts. Where Drakta does not have authority to bring you as a prisoner before the emperor, the Vestan do.”
“Yes, but even the assassins are bound,” Basaal argued. “They cannot kill a prince.” Basaal’s mood turned dark. “Only the emperor can do that.”
An uncomfortable remembrance settled itself in Annan’s eyes. “My Prince, already your unorthodox dealings with Aemogen have caused much suspicion, and you would do well to remember that your father is testing your loyalty to him and to the empire in this conquest. You will already need a silver tongue to explain the absurdity of the last six months,” Annan added, putting a hand on Basaal’s shoulder. “You must avoid any action that would appear contrary to your father.”
“I know,” Basaal said. “I’m afraid I’ve used up all the leniency he has to offer. If only Queen Eleanor had surrendered,” he added. “It’s all so foolish.”
“I think her military advisors rather clever.”
“It was clever,” Basaal agreed. “And it was her own scheme, not that of an advisor. But quick cleverness does not solve a long problem. You know, as I do, that my father will never let Aemogen rest now. He will take Aemogen’s defiance as a personal insult and grind the entire nation into the dust.” Basaal frowned. “It will be the Desolation of Aramesh all over again.”
As Basaal and Annan returned, walking back through the camp towards his pavilion, he saw two figures in dark purple: the Vestan, his father’s personal assassins. He could feel his father’s will, like a vice, tightening a
round his freedom. Basaal looked into the assassins’ eyes steadily as he passed, betraying no uncertainty. They bowed before him, and Basaal acknowledged them with a fixed nod.
When they had passed out of range of the assassins’ hearing, Basaal spoke again. “So, if the Aemogen queen were to escape somehow while in my custody—”
“She would be hunted by the Vestan and killed,” Annan said. “You would then be stripped of your post and sent as a prisoner to Zarbadast.”
Basaal knew Annan’s words to be true. They had just arrived at his pavilion, and Basaal, before entering, gripped his fingers around Annan’s shoulder.
“Annan?”
“Yes?”
“If I ever intend to speak promises to another living soul, stop my tongue. It’s an unruly business trying to keep them.”
***
Eleanor watched Basaal enter without ceremony. It appeared at first he would reclaim his table. But finding Eleanor there, reading through a few notes he had taken that morning from the Fourth Scroll, he passed her without comment.
Her shoulders tensed, as if he were a predatory beast she could not trust. “You did leave me here alone,” Eleanor said, defensive of her snooping.
“I didn’t say anything,” Basaal replied. Eleanor watched as he pulled a key from around his neck, inserting it into one of the large trunks, which Eleanor had already tried to open after Basaal had left the pavilion. The catch released with a click, and the prince lifted the lid and withdrew a small velvet bag. He then stood up straight, tilting his head upward in the attitude of delay, before he turned back towards Eleanor. She pretended to be focused on the notes before her so the prince would not see that she’d been watching him.
“I need to ask a favor of you,” Basaal said.
A favor? Eleanor looked up, knowing that her expression was unforgiving. Did he really think she would grant him any favor?
Basaal approached the table and set the velvet bag on top of the half-opened scroll.
“Would you be willing to help secure my Safeeraah in place?” he asked.
Eleanor reached for the velvet bag, holding it in her hand a moment before slipping her fingers into the closed opening. She pulled the mouth of the bag wide, and turned it over. Its contents fell onto the table: bands and bracelets of sorts, made of fine metals or strips of stamped leather. Some were simple, but some were elegant, fine beyond any workmanship Eleanor had ever seen.
“These are the Safeeraah I wear,” Basaal said as he stood next to Eleanor, moving his finger across the bands. “The faithful of my religion mark things of significance with bands around their forearms. They represent covenants, promises, or at times are tied to an occasion. They can be accepted from family or friends or lovers. To accept one comes with a commitment and an oath.”
The prince’s voice sounded comfortable, as if he and Eleanor were playing chess or walking out over the eastern cliffs in Aemogen. His tone maintained an illusion of intimacy, which irritated Eleanor, who felt wary of the familiarity, even as some underlying current desired to fall back into that trust.
“For how long?” Eleanor asked, touching her fingertips to a beautiful piece of silver. Then she picked it up, turning it over in her hands. “How long are you to wear each one?”
“It depends. Some are for a particular time, but most are meant for life. Usually, a lifelong Safeeraah is made of a material that will withstand the wear.” He fingered the small, knotted band of black leather on his wrist.
“Are you ever to remove them?” she asked.
“No.”
“If they are so important to you,” Eleanor said, her words feeling bitter in her mouth, “why did you take them off for your deception?”
“I did what I had to do, Eleanor,” Basaal said, answering her directly, his jaw taut. He released a slow breath and ran a hand over his face. “Will you please help me restore them?” he asked.
Or not. Eleanor could almost see these words on the end of his tongue, but he held them back. She dropped the silver band as if it were a snake. “Why should I help you?” she demanded. “Ask one of your men.”
The prince appeared uncomfortable and, although she could not fully believe it, embarrassed. It was not something Eleanor had ever seen. It took all of his self-control to answer her question civilly.
“Because part of the Safeeraah covenant is that if you ever remove them, they can only be sealed upon you again if a woman performs the ritual.”
Eleanor laughed, the absurdity chasing fear from her thoughts for a brief, clear moment. “You speak of your father not recognizing a female monarch as an equal, saying that women are not as respected as men under his reign, yet only a woman can reseal your sacred Safeeraah.”
“Irony is the province of every culture, Your Majesty,” Basaal said, his voice turning sharp. “Not just of one’s own.”
“Well, perhaps you should find a local Marion girl to suit your purposes,” Eleanor replied, ignoring his observation. “I am sure any pretty dairymaid can tie a knot.”
Basaal looked as if he would like to answer, but he instead gathered up each Safeeraah with care and returned them to the bag. Eleanor felt a small victory, for having stung the prince, who appeared so invincible and cold. Yet, something—the native voice of her mind, perhaps—chided Eleanor for having responded flippantly.
“They are very sacred,” Basaal said, his soft answer incongruous with his weaponry and soldier’s garb. Eleanor bit her lip and looked away. His wounded vulnerability stuck in Eleanor’s mind. He took the bag of Safeeraah back to his large trunk and locked it away before, wordlessly, leaving Eleanor alone in the tent.
Eleanor flushed, ashamed she felt bad at all. Angry she regretted her rudeness. Her feelings were almost as sharp as the guilt she felt for having disregarded his honest entreaty. Clearly, he still saw a modicum of friendship where she only saw betrayal. Irritated, she set both of her elbows on the scattered notes before her and pressed her face into her hands. Then the image of the spring festival, where he, as Wil, had treated the Aemogen seed ritual with such sincere respect, swept through her mind, causing a burning discomfort in her breast.
Eleanor cursed any corner of her heart that said she should have done the same for him. Her rejection had been a just response. This prince was her enemy, despite the words from the night before, which were still echoing in her mind. Yes. My army. Sent down against my will to conquer you. Frustrated, Eleanor buried her face in the crook of her elbow.
***
Eleanor waited for several days, kept in the tent with little reprieve. Twice a day, when accompanied by Annan, Eleanor was free to walk and seek some privacy beyond the camp. Once, Eleanor had passed a large group of soldiers, who had gathered to watch the prince sparring with another soldier. If Eleanor had been taken aback by his aggression during the battle run, what she now saw rendered her speechless. Basaal fought as a dragon, throwing his entire body into each movement mercilessly. After sending his assailant to the ground, the prince dropped beside the man, his forearm pinning the man’s throat against the dirt, and he pulled a small knife from a sheath on his arm and pressed it to the man’s neck.
Applause broke out, and the prince stood, offering his opponent a hand up, with a grin on his face. He was breathing heavy and looked exhilarated by the fight. A rush of panic shot through Eleanor, and as his gaze drifted her way, she hurried off towards the pavilion, Annan following close behind.
Basaal spoke little of his plans to her, and she did not want to ask him anything, save one question.
“My horse, Prince,” she said. “What has become of Thrift?”
He looked up from his work with a blank expression until he remembered. “Thrift? I left him in the pass so he would be found by one of your soldiers.”
“Thank you,” she replied before she could think better of it.
Basaal stared at her a long moment before returning to his work. “You’re welcome,” he replied.
“I didn’t mean—” s
he began to say, but Eleanor left off, and he ignored her.
She felt caught between two images that she’d gained of Prince Basaal. On the one hand, he had surprised Eleanor with the intimacy of his request regarding his Safeeraah, and the thought he had taken for Thrift was reminiscent of the relationship they had built in Aemogen. But, on the other hand, as he came and went with his officers, she watched a confident, intelligent, and, at times, supercilious prince, discussing strategy and mapping out the next stages of his conquest, her country. It was hard for Eleanor to sift through these contradictions to his true character. He did not speak again of helping her escape.
At night, when she could hear Basaal’s breathing coming from the other end of the luxuriant pavilion, Eleanor’s mind traveled back to Ainsley. She walked through the moonlit corridors, almost believing that if she could manage to call up the faces of those she loved clearly enough in her mind, they would know—they must know—that she was alive and that her thoughts were with them and that, whatever the cost, she would journey home. Had they returned to Ainsley by now? Was anyone still waiting, watching from Colun Tir? Did Edythe know?
***
Basaal was working figures on the paper before him in the candlelight. It was not yet late, and he had energy to burn. As the ink smeared below his hand, he cursed. Setting his quill in the inkwell, he leaned back and looked in Eleanor’s direction. She sat on the couch that he had given her for sleeping. It had become her own personal fortress, which she rarely left and which she protected with fierce glares if anyone came too near.
She was now reading through Basaal’s copy of the Third Scroll, which she had purloined during one of his many absences. She held the scroll, unapologetically, above her head, catching the light from Basaal’s candles. They had only exchanged words once the entire day, when he had offered Eleanor additional light. She had declined and had continued reading.
