by Beth Brower
The morning was light, and sunlight spilled over the carpet. Eleanor sat quietly in a chair, watching him, her eyes solemn and silent, worry marking her face.
Basaal fought to regain his breath. Irritated at himself for sleeping so soundly, Basaal leaned forward and rubbed his eyes. His forehead was cold and wet with sweat, and his fingers were trembling. He said nothing to Eleanor as he went into the antechamber. There, Annan and Basaal’s guard were waiting at attention.
“Annan, will you see that breakfast is brought up for the queen and the rest of the guard?” he said. “I’m taking myself to the bathhouse. Send a fresh set of clothing down to me.”
Basaal descended several staircases, until he found himself in an orderly garden with a small bathhouse, reserved for select members of the royal family. He entered, pleased to find it unoccupied, and undressed himself before slipping into the cool water.
He let himself sink into the liquid, moving his hands across his face, before he finally rose to the surface, his lungs burning in the autumn morning. Basal shook the water from his hair, trying to think of anything but his dreams.
He had not yet prayed.
Soon, one of his own men came with a change of clothing and a robe, removing Basaal’s used attire, and withdrawing without speaking. For this, Basaal was grateful. He slid under the water again and swam across the pool several times before pulling up to the wall and stretching his arms along the rim. Basaal’s pulse was racing in the cold air of the morning.
“Come to make yourself clean, have you?”
Basaal looked towards the door. An old man stood there, with a robe over his arm and a slight smile on his face. Basaal did not answer, but rather studied the man’s features. They touched him as familiar, yet he recalled no previous interaction, only that he’d seen him in the Marion throne room the day before.
“You are a member of King Staven’s court,” Basaal finally responded.
“Yes,” the old man said as he walked around the small pool opposite the prince. He laid his robe on a bench and quickly stripped off his clothes. He was old, his hair gray, his skin having given way to soft folds and protruding veins. He smiled at Basaal and dipped his toe into the bath.
“It’s a touch cold for an outside bath, but here you come, and so must I.” The man eased himself into the water with a hesitant expression, looking pained yet satisfied once he had settled all the way into the pool. “Now, rumor has it that Staven is trying to woo our Eleanor,” he said.
Our Eleanor? Basaal eyed the man but did not respond.
“We can speak quite freely,” the gentleman said, a glint in his eye. “I’ve a faithful servant keeping watch, who will signal if anyone comes close.”
It struck Basaal that the old man was enjoying his bit of intrigue, and he laughed. “I’m afraid, sir,” Basaal said, “I do not speak ‘quite freely’ with people I know, let alone with a total stranger.”
The older man opened his mouth, not to speak but to run the tip of his tongue across his lower lip, as if thinking. “I’m afraid you must,” he said after a moment had passed. “I believe that you met my younger brother while in Aemogen, Thayne of Allarstam. He has settled Old Ainsley Fen, charming place, from what I hear. Ghosts and whatnot,” he added. “Never been for a visit.”
The old courtier shrugged dismissively. “What Thayne could have told you,” he continued, “if he had known who you were, was that we are cousins to your mother’s family.” The old man wrinkled his nose. “I can’t see how Thayne missed it. You have so much of Edith in your face I almost can’t believe you are real. You were given a name after him, a second name: Wiliam. Thayne carried it first, and Edith named you for him.”
Basaal did not show the emotions he felt at this revelation. He kept his face steady. “Say what you have come to say, and I will decide if I may trust you or not.”
“Bosh,” the old man replied. “You’re as guarded as they say. I’m not arguing that there isn’t good reason, seeing as how you are Shaamil’s son and all.” The hair on the back of Basaal’s neck pricked. “Edith was a sweet soul, my stars, she was. She wrote several letters about you, by and by. I brought one with me,” he added. “Nothing like good reading in the bath to start your day, right? It’s in the pocket of my coat. I might be willing to give it to you if you can speak openly with an old man.”
“I don’t understand what you want to hear,” Basaal said.
“Has Staven offered for Eleanor?” the old man said directly. The drop in his voice indicated he was through with making acquaintance.
“Yes,” Basaal said.
“Do you know the terms or the understanding of it?”
“Yes,” Basaal responded. “He thinks he can negotiate with Emperor Shaamil, that if he and Eleanor marry, annexing the two countries, they will open trade and pay a tax to Imirillia, retaining sovereignty of Aemogen—and Marion.”
“But, you do not think Shaamil will go for the idea,” the old man said. “I can see it in your face.”
“Staven is a fool,” Basaal said, then he splashed water over his face. “Shaamil would have, perhaps, considered the proposal years ago, before—” Basaal left off his thought and shrugged. “Once he hears that they brought down the mountain, it will become personal,” he explained. “He will want to make his own statement by clearing the pass, at any cost, and subjugating the population.”
The courtier considered what Basaal had said before responding. “Now Aedon is trusting you,” he said, “to get Eleanor home.”
“How do you know that?” Basaal asked.
“We’ve our own eyes and ears between Marion and Aemogen,” the old man said, pointing to his own. “And, we both know there is a way through the mountain. I’ve had letters these last few days from Thayne,” he explained. “You promised that you would see Eleanor safely home if she were in your care. You swore it on the deaths of Common Field.”
Basaal bristled at having his private pledge spoken to his face by this stranger. “I did,” he finally admitted.
“Then, let me help you.”
Basaal ran his fingers through his wet hair. “I can’t,” he said. The prince lifted himself out of the water and walked towards the bench, where his things waited. He covered himself with the robe then sat, brushing the water away from his face and leaning against the wall.
“You still don’t trust me.” The old man moved his arms through the water, as if remembering he was cold.
“No, I don’t.” Basaal shrugged. “Trust is a process, not a moment.”
“I say it’s a decision.”
“Whatever it is,” Basaal said, impatient, “I don’t trust you. But, that is not why I can’t send Eleanor with you.”
“Why then?” he asked.
“I will be as honest as I can,” Basaal said and paused. “Sorry, what was your name?”
“Call me cousin Telford.” The old man grinned. “An awful name, but it’s mine.”
Basaal raised his eyebrows in agreement. It was an awful name.
“I suppose you have heard of the Desolation of Aramesh?” Basaal asked. The old man, Telford as he called himself, nodded. “Not long after Aramesh, my father decided to take Aemogen. He commissioned me to lead this conquest, but I refused the commission, at first.”
“Before you realized what a feather little Aemogen would be in your cap,” Telford suggested. “A step forward in your own ambition.” The courtier almost sounded flippant.
“No,” Basaal said, eyeing the man with a wary frown. “I have my personal reasons for wanting to see Aemogen spared as much pain as possible. I realized that if my father were to ask any of my brothers to lead the conquest, it would be a brutal showing, and the country of Aemogen would suffer.”
Telford was silent.
“I then claimed the position in hopes that I could lead the Aemogen queen to choose a peaceful surrender,” Basaal said. “You know that didn’t work. Yet, I am determined to maintain my position as the head of the Aemogen conq
uest. That means there can be no misstep whatsoever. Eleanor cannot escape while in my custody.” Telford moved as if to say something, but Basaal interrupted him. “You’ve heard of the Vestan Assassins?”
With a nod, Telford waved Basaal on.
“Four of them travel in my company,” Basaal explained. “They will ensure that both Eleanor and I arrive in Zarbadast. She will have to escape from the palace there, for they will track her and claim her life if she disappears in any other way. In Zarbadast, she would have the best chance of an untraceable escape.”
“Do you know how she will find her way back to Aemogen?” Telford asked, his voice quiet.
“I am figuring it out.”
“Ah.” The old courtier went under the water a moment then came up, sputtering water away from his face and wiping his eyes. “So, you’ve no intentions,” he said, looking like an old sheepdog enjoying a bath, “of keeping the queen there for yourself?”
Basaal flushed and let out a breath. “No. Why do people keep insinuating that?”
“Rumors,” the courier replied, combing back his thinning hair with his fingers. “Thayne said the two of you were quite close on the battle run.”
“I believe we had developed a close friendship,” Basaal said slowly. “But, until a few days ago, Queen Eleanor could hardly look at me.” Basaal realized he was dry, so he stood, removed his robe, and grabbed his trousers, pulling them on.
“And this upsets you?” Telford asked.
Basaal shrugged indifferently and pulled his shirt over his head, tucking it into his breeches.
“Thayne believes,” Telford continued, “that Eleanor’s estimation of you will only continue to rise.”
“Why, on all the seven stars, would he think that?” Basaal asked. “The man trusted me as much as he would any snake.” Basaal sat and pulled on his boots, waiting for a response. Before the courtier could reply, a sound echoed on the outside wall of the bathhouse.
“It’s really a pity we’ve not more time to talk,” Telford said. “I am afraid our privacy is about to end.”
Before Basaal could answer, Telford submerged himself in the water. Basaal stood, leaving his wet robe on the bench. As he was leaving, two men entered, eyeing Basaal. He could hear Thayne’s brother greet them warmly. It took several minutes for Basaal to realize he had never received his mother’s letter.
***
In the moments before the company set out from Marion City, Basaal took advantage of the last privacy he and Eleanor would have. He told her of his conversation with the old courtier, Telford.
Although Eleanor listened with care, she remained quiet.
“Is this a man I should not have spoken to?” Basaal asked after waiting for several minutes. “I spoke to him because he’d obviously been in contact with Aedon.”
“You can trust Telford,” Eleanor confirmed, her expression weighing what she had heard. She looked at Basaal as if she were reminding herself that he was right, that her only option now was to escape from Zarbadast. “I only wish I’d a chance to send a letter through to Aemogen, to Edythe,” she said.
Basaal drummed his finger along the arm of the sofa, looking sideways towards Eleanor.
“Did Staven return this morning for your answer?” he asked.
“If my answer to Staven was yes,” she began, “would you agree to stay in Marion City long enough to receive Shaamil’s response?”
“No,” Basaal said, answering honestly. “It would take too long, and I already know that, at this stage, he would refuse the annexation.”
“Are you sure?”
“Nearly,” he said.
Eleanor frowned. “I will tell you that I have considered the proposal in its entirety.”
Basaal did not speak, but his throat felt pinched.
“It could be the best alternative for the people of Aemogen.”
He held his breath.
“But, I did not think you would cooperate,” she said. “And, I do not trust that Aemogen would be better in the hands of Staven than in yours.” Eleanor paused before adding, “If you can keep your head long enough to finish the conquest.”
“So you told him no?” Basaal asked.
“I told him to go to the devil.”
Basaal began to smile but pulled against the rising corners of his mouth. He wanted to tell Eleanor how glad he was that she would not have Staven, but her expression was not inviting, and so he remained silent.
Chapter Four
“Politics are always a caution,” she had told Edythe months ago. “One power twists a knife, and their neighbors fall to their knees.” The words now ran through Eleanor’s mind as she resigned herself to the journey into Imirillia.
As the company of seventy soldiers galloped through the northern fields, Eleanor glanced back only once, towards the blond buildings and arches of Marion City. Her responsibility now was to stay alive and return to Aemogen, so she turned her attention to the unknown, to the North.
The Vestan were ever present reminders of Eleanor’s internal trepidation, but Basaal had given instructions that Annan would be her personal guard. Knowing she spoke Imirillian passably, he began to tell her about the journey ahead.
“A larger company, composed of infantry, cavalry, and supplies, can take over three months to make this journey,” he shared with her, late into the first day. “But we are a small company, and the prince will push us hard. Rather than taking the more fertile route to the west, wrapping around through Capabolt, and then turning east towards Zarbadast, Basaal will take us straight up through the Aronee and Zeaad deserts,” Annan explained. “We will arrive in Zarbadast in under two months.”
“And what if you are traveling alone?” Eleanor asked. “The prince traveled down without a company. How long did it take him?”
Annan smiled. “Seven weeks, if you are fast,” he said. “Six is almost impossible. Basaal claims he made it in five.”
***
The northern regions of Marion were descending rapidly into a cold fall with the rest of the country. Eleanor was wrapped in a borrowed cloak, her fingers raw and stiff from the winds coming down from the high mountains to the west.
The prince rode near the head of the column, surrounded by his own men, intermingled with his father’s officers. The Vestan assassins slithered through the company, usually with two riding before Eleanor, and two behind. Annan kept all the riders at bay, giving Eleanor a measure of solitude amidst the company.
She did not ask him many questions, though Annan had told her that she might inquire anything. His eyes watched those around him, especially the Vestan.
As the company stopped each evening, Eleanor was ushered into a large tent that she shared with Basaal. A few blankets were all that could be afforded, and Eleanor was often too tired to complain before falling asleep. After the first night—when Eleanor had slept without eating—Annan saw that she had food before resting. Basaal rarely spoke, giving reassuring glances when their eyes met, but leaving Eleanor to her thoughts, and keeping privately to his.
The nights were cold, and Ainsley felt far away from her tired body, her muscles strained whenever she moved, and her sores from the hard riding burned at the touch. It was more difficult, Basaal’s fast pace north, than the battle run had ever seemed. The landscape was changing too. It shifted from fields, similar enough to those in Aemogen, into a maze of high stone, coming off the last green hills of the south.
She had heard of this place, which they called the stone sea. The articulation of its massive gray stones under the sun’s steady yet soft hand was a beautiful distraction. Thick green grass clung in vibrant masses to the rocks. And, as always, Prince Basaal rode ahead, speaking only occasionally with those around him, keeping a quick pace.
“It is not long before we will cross the northern Marion border into Allute, the southernmost country of the Imirillian Empire,” Annan told Eleanor one morning as they rode endlessly north.
“And what will we find?” Eleanor aske
d, her mouth dry, and her lips broken by speaking the question. She tasted blood against her tongue.
“We will pass thought the city of Alliet and then begin our sojourn through the Aronee desert.”
What lay behind and what lay before Eleanor had become a dull thought as her days filled with the endlessness of riding. Some evenings, Eleanor would move slowly towards the back of the tent, where she lay down but did not sleep in hopes that she and Basaal might speak of any plans he had thought up for her escape. But he was often out and about with the men or in quiet discussion with Annan in the open doorway of the tent. Twice, Eleanor had felt him whisper her name, but she was too tired to wake herself up and respond.
It was many days before Eleanor awoke without feeling cold. They were far enough north now to have left the frigid autumn air of the south, moving steadily towards a more temperate climate. And, despite the inner turmoil she felt as they pressed farther into the unknown, Eleanor began to turn her thoughts towards Imirillia with curiosity.
One morning, Eleanor found herself awake before dawn. She turned softly and was startled when she saw Basaal standing at the far end of the tent. He whispered several words before kneeling down, and then repeated what he had said. He wore no armor, just as when he had prayed before. But this morning seemed different somehow, more like ritual than prayer.
Basaal repeated the same fluid motion several times until, finally, he paused on his knees, covering his heart with his hands, silent. After what seemed a long time, Basaal touched his forehead to the floor and stood up, his bearing returning to his casual, confident timbre as he took a drink of water from a pouch. When he caught sight of her eyes watching him, the prince smiled.
“You’re awake!” he said, as if it were miraculous. Eleanor sat up and pushed her long, copper hair away from her face.
“Yes,” she said, lifting her hand towards the stiffness running through her neck.
