by Beth Brower
“So I am delayed for one season,” Basaal said, walking slowly to a table and facing his father. He leaned against it, his arms crossed. “It’s of little consequence, and the conquest will be easier when I have wed their queen.”
Shaamil did not reply, but rather looked at his son as if mulling a thought over in his mind. “Yes, the young queen,” Shaamil said. “I have not yet seen her. Ammar moved her to the physician’s apartment.” The inflection of the emperor’s voice sounded as if he were trying to draw an answer from Basaal.
“So I’ve heard,” Basaal said, trying to sound disinterested.
“I’ll not hide from you my disappointment in how you have handled this whole affair, Basaal. At my pleasure,” he said, “I will have the queen brought before me, and then we will discuss what will become of her and Aemogen.” Shaamil gave a slight smile. “And you,” he added.
Basaal did not answer, knowing if he played this game wrong, too far to one side or the other, it would cost him his life.
“Admittedly, I am disappointed in you, Basaal. I had thought the lesson of Aramesh would be enough and that you would eliminate your own weaknesses.” Shaamil looked directly into his son’s eyes. “Don’t force my hand.”
Then the emperor left as quietly as he had come. Basaal blew out a breath and sat on his bed. Beneath the seven stars, if there was a way for him to get Eleanor out of Zarbadast without losing his own head, he had to find it.
Tapping the toe of his riding boots on the floor, a thought crossed his mind. He would go riding, but not with Annan—Basaal needed some very specific advice.
***
The high desert pass was draped in folds of green, as it was for only a few months every year. It was here, above Zarbadast, that Basaal took his black stallion, Refigh, through his paces. Once satisfied, he reined up next to Dantib, who sat astride a humble brown mare.
“He’s perfect,” Basaal said, offering the old stable master a grin. “You’ve done a beautiful job with Refigh since we’ve returned.”
Dantib watched his young master but said nothing.
“You are a silent companion today, Dantib,” Basaal said, pulling at his Safeeraah, and he looked down upon Zarbadast, which spread wide, like a fierce desert plant.
“You have been preoccupied in spirit the last several days,” was all the answer the old man would give.
“Yes,” Basaal said, rubbing Refigh’s neck. “I must help the Aemogen queen escape Zarbadast.”
“And?” Dantib asked.
Basaal looked quickly up at Dantib. “And, I would like you to be the one who leads her out of Imirillia,” Basaal said, directly to his friend, unblinking and straightforward. He knew asking this of Dantib was selfish on his part, for Dantib would not only put his own life at peril but he would also be exiled from Zarbadast, never to return to his homeland. His position as stable master in the house of Shaamil would also be forfeit forever as well as his customs, his memories, and his home. Basaal knew he was asking this and more of the old man, and he watched as each consideration registered on Dantib’s wrinkled face.
“You ask this of me?” Dantib inquired.
“I do,” Basaal said. “You are the only man I would trust with Eleanor’s life.”
A cry broke out, and Basaal pulled Refigh around, facing the rocks of the pass behind them. There, a band of high desert marauders had broken out from the cliffs and were barreling towards Basaal and Dantib. Refigh was one of the fastest horses in the realm, so Basaal could have easily outrun the thieves. But Dantib rode his old brown mare, which would be inadequate to outdistance the desert thieves.
“Go!” Dantib yelled.
Shaking his head, Basaal withdrew his scimitar, lifting it high in the air as a symbol of battle. Dantib’s face was taut. He had no weapon drawn for he carried none.
In a rush, the seven marauders surrounded them. Basaal wanted to tell them to go to the devil, but he held his tongue and turned his horse towards their leader.
“May we help you with something?” Basaal asked, his scimitar still raised.
The leader ignored Basaal for a moment. “Look men,” he said, “it seems we’ve caught a nobleman and his slave,” he laughed.
“Both of you will be in slavery soon enough,” a fierce man with a scar across his face called out. “Then, the old man will have revenge on his young master, eh, Fasseil?”
“After we’ve taken his fine weaponry and the steed, of course.” The man Basaal suspected to be their leader, the man they had called Fasseil, scrutinized Basaal.
Jaw clenched, Basaal tightened his fist around Refigh’s reins. He kept a continual watch on the men around him, making sure they stayed a sufficient distance away.
“I’m afraid we cannot oblige you,” Basaal said, addressing Fasseil. “So, if you would be so kind, we will be about our business.”
The man with the scarred face laughed, and Fasseil seemed amused.
“The old man has no weapon,” Fasseil said. “You are outnumbered by seven to one. Do you really suppose we would let you go just because you ask politely?”
Basaal was certain he could inflict whatever damage necessary—five of the seven men would certainly be no challenge for him. But it would only end in more bloodshed—a foolish risk—so he forced himself to talk.
“You are men of Imirillia,” Basaal said, scanning their eyes. “If not of Zarbadast. So, yes, I do expect you to let me go.”
“Why?” Fasseil asked.
“I have an army at my disposal.”
“An army?” Fasseil laughed and turned to his men. “We’ve a young noble, pretending to be a prince of Imirillia, trying to frighten us off.”
“Would you like a copy of my pedigree?” Basaal asked, raising his eyebrows, half a smile appearing on his face. “Or, shall I prove myself some other way?” He glanced at all the men in the circle. “I could simply ask you to reveal your allegiance.”
Doubt played across the face of Fasseil, but the man with the scar still scoffed. “Even if you are a son of Shaamil,” he said,“we would never be found. We kill you, and no one ever knows. We are wanderers, marauders. You are a fool to think we mind such things—the killing of princes.”
“The seven stars mind such things,” Basaal said. He caught the eye of a man in blue, who kept his eyes looking away. He felt familiar, but a headscarf concealed his face. “And, your curse would be severe,” Basaal continued. “Do you think that there would be little retaliation from the emperor? Were none of you at Aramesh?” Hearing this, two of the men looked at each other, one of them being the man in blue.
“I see the remembrance in your faces,” Basaal said, lifting his chin towards the man in blue. “Tell me, would you like the vengeance of Shaamil upon your head?” The two men looked away. “Well,” Basaal said, turning his horse in a circle, keeping a close eye on the scarred man, who appeared the most eager to strike. “I am his seventh son, Basaal. I would not encourage you to test the wrath of my father or my brothers and certainly not of the seven stars,” he added. “Leave us be, and I will leave you be.”
Fasseil looked towards the man in blue, who simply nodded in return, apparently confirming Basaal’s identity. Then the leader of the marauders frowned.
“A prince, eh?” His eyes narrowed. “Then you must certainly be generous to your subjects and give us of your riches. You have many horses, do you not? And many fine weapons, do you not? Are not a few goods worth your life or the life of your servant?” The marauders traded apprehensive looks at hearing the words spoken by Fasseil.
Seeing their uncertainty, Basaal motioned to Dantib. “I am instructing my friend to ride out, down into Zarbadast,” Basaal said, carefully. “Do not try and stop him in any way. As you can see, your mounts are all finer than his, and he has no clothing, weapons, or personal effects that you would desire. I warn you,” he added, “not to make a move as he goes. Dantib.”
“But Master—”
“Go!” Basaal repeated sharply to Danti
b.
“We are not just going to let him go,” the scarred man spat, “so that he can go and rouse your men. Do you think us fools?”
“You are going to let him go,” Basaal countered. “This man is under my protection, and, if you impede him, I promise all the seven curses upon you and your sons.” Basaal’s arm still held his scimitar, waiting. He was perspiring, but he held his face firm.
Finally, the man in the blue scarf backed his horse away, creating a space for Dantib to lead the brown mare out of the circle. The old stable master looked warily back at Basaal.
“Clear out,” Basaal ordered, keeping his eyes on the armed marauders around him. The stable master clucked his mount forward, riding south, towards Zarbadast.
“Now, let’s settle this,” Basaal said, sheathing his scimitar and leaning forward, facing Fasseil.
Fasseil seemed surprised, if not suspicious, at Basaal’s actions.
“Is there a grievance you need mended?” Basaal asked. “I am in a position to offer this to you if you make your case well. Why are you marauding rather than serving at a trade?”
Fasseil blew air out of his mouth. He was growing impatient. No one else spoke, but the man dressed in blue looked down. Basaal turned his questions at him.
“You, soldier,” he said. “Why have you abandoned your post to join these desert thieves? Have you not pledged your loyalty to the empire?” he pressed. “I ask you now if you will stand with me.” The man did not answer Basaal’s question, but he did look towards Fasseil.
“I vouch for the prince,” he finally said. “And, I join him as a protector. If you fight him, you fight with me.” He offered Basaal the sign of a subservient soldier, and, when Basaal offered him a sign in return, the deserter moved his horse closer to the prince’s.
“You’re a fool, Zanntal,” the man with the scarred face said, and he cursed at Basaal’s new ally. Basaal glanced towards Zanntal, then he continued to eye the others, ignoring the hairs rising on the back of his neck, knowing that at any moment the marauders’ fury could break, and he would be a dead man.
“Fasseil, what is your grievance?” Basaal pressed.
“I have no grievance,” he said. “I’ve chosen my life.” He was growing impatient with Basaal. But, the prince could see that the man was weighing his options in his mind and that he did not like the idea of having Zarbadast after him.
“Any of you here,” Basaal said, turning to look at all the men, “if you choose, may apply to my personal steward for work. But, Zanntal and I will be on our way.”
The stunned men looked towards Fasseil as Basaal motioned for Zanntal to leave the circle, and then he followed him cautiously. As they passed near the man with the scarred face, Basaal placed his hand near his scimitar. His instincts proved correct as the man slipped a dagger from his sleeve, and Basaal, in one quick motion, cut off the man’s hand.
Then there were shouts and screams as Basaal urged Refigh into a run, Zanntal keeping pace. The thieves behind were shouting, arguing about something. When Basaal threw a glance over his shoulder, he saw that they were not following him, but rather were retreating to the rocks of the high desert.
Once they had left the high desert behind and dropped down onto the sands before Zarbadast, Basaal slowed Refigh to a walk, and Zanntal did the same with his mount.
“Zanntal?” he asked.
Zanntal pulled the blue headscarf away from his face. “Prince Basaal.”
Basaal laughed and reached his hand out to Zanntal. “I can hardly believe—of all things. Thank you.” Zanntal acknowledged Basaal’s thanks, but he did not speak. “Tell me,” Basaal continued, “why have you abandoned your post? I have not seen you since—”
“Since Aramesh,” Zanntal said, pulling back his sleeve to reveal a dark blue mark on his forearm. “I swore myself to Prince Emaad, sixth son,” he explained. “He is dead.”
Basaal looked at Zanntal, Emaad’s dearest friend. “When his armies were reclaimed in Aramesh, you left your post?” he guessed.
“I did.”
“Were you there when he died?” Basaal asked.
Zanntal shook his head and looked towards the ground. “I heard rumors, Prince. And, because of what I had heard, I choose to stand with you today.”
Before them, the northern gate of Zarbadast opened, and a company of men came riding out, Dantib being among the group.
“He died to protect me, Zanntal.” Basaal looked the soldier in the eye. “Emaad was my closest brother. Will you offer me your services? I will treat you well.”
Zanntal narrowed his eyes, a somber smile on his face. “I offer myself unto life,” he said, “not unto death.”
“So be it,” Basaal said, accepting the pledge. “Welcome to my household. I have few allies who think as I do, if you take my meaning.”
Zanntal did not reply but made the signal of alliance, which Basaal returned. Then they rode down to meet Dantib and the company of soldiers.
“I am well, Dantib,” Basaal assured the stable master. Basaal spoke briefly with the captain of the guard detail and then sent them into the high desert pass to clear out the marauders. He also decided to send Zanntal ahead to the seven palaces.
“Give them this,” Basaal said, handing Zanntal a golden token of a bird rising, a ruby set in the center: a simpler, less valuable version of the gift Eleanor had refused. “And my steward will see you settled,” he explained, “until I send for you.”
***
Dusty and colorful, the streets of Zarbadast were as they always had been as Basaal and Dantib rode slowly through the crowds. People pointed as the prince rode past. Winding their way through the early evening streets, Basaal explained to Dantib how he and Zanntal had escaped their predicament.
“At least you had the sense,” Dantib said, “to reason with them rather than to fight your way out.”
“Yes.” Basaal smiled wryly. “Not even Eleanor could fault my performance.”
Dantib did not respond.
Arriving at the palace gates, they entered the stables. Basaal dismounted and handed the reins to Dantib. He was about to go, when the old man motioned for him to come closer.
“Yes?” Basaal asked.
“I will see it done,” Dantib said. His face was serious, resolved.
“My request, you mean?” Basaal asked quietly.
“Yes.”
Basaal clasped Dantib’s shoulder, humbled. “Next time we go out to ride, I will share with you my thoughts,” he promised. “Thank you, Dantib.”
A stable boy came in and relieved the men of their horses. So Basaal turned towards the palace, and Dantib walked stiffly into the stables.
Chapter Eight
“And this is your family line?” Eleanor asked, pointing to the pedigree scroll that was rolled open on the table. Ammar often worked across from her, noting his own discoveries, recording his medical experiments or whatever general scholarship in which he was involved.
“Yes,” Ammar said, pausing in his writing to look at the scroll. “My father, his wives, and their children.”
Ammar had indulged Eleanor’s penchant for learning and knowledge. With a promise to take her to the Zarbadast archives one day, he had ordered history, poetry, and the complete Seven Scrolls to be delivered to the apartment. Eleanor had begun with the history of the royal family.
“It says here,” she said, “that Emperor Shaamil’s first wife was Gelareh. She bore him Emir, first son, and Ashim, second son.”
“Yes”
“Then Shaamil married your mother, Aafsoon. You were soon born, becoming the third son. Then,” Eleanor said as she scanned the names, “Gelareh, the first wife, bore Shaamil two more sons: Arsaalan, fourth son, and Kiarash, fifth son. The emperor married Edith. Then Gelareh bore him one last son—Emaad, sixth son—four months before the birth of Edith’s son, Prince Basaal, seventh son.”
“That is correct,” Ammar said, returning to his physician notes.
Eleanor looked up f
rom her scroll. “I see the history on paper,” she said. “Now tell me the real story.”
“Pardon?” Ammar said, looking up.
“The wives and the sons.” Eleanor waved her hand over the paper. “Did Shaamil prefer one wife to another? Have the sons always felt friendship, or enmity? Tell me.”
“I thought you would be a sweet scholar, quiet and unobtrusive,” Ammar said, looking at Eleanor with regret. “I see I was wrong and that my own work will suffer.” He set his quill down on the table and motioned for Tameez to bring refreshments.
“Gelareh was Father’s first wife,” Ammar said, sounding as if he were giving a tutorial. “She was beautiful but spiteful, with a jealous nature. Her family was wealthy, with a large influence in the western regions of Imirillia. Theirs was a political alliance, not a love match,” Ammar explained. “My mother was the daughter of a wealthy merchant, here in the city. Her dowry was vast, and her beauty famed. Gelareh may have been more alluring, but Aafsoon, my mother, was kind. Father was fond of her and was pleased to take her as his second wife. But—”
“But?” Eleanor echoed, waiting for Ammar to continue.
“But, although the emperor is a practical man, I believe he was disappointed in his brides,” Ammar said. “My mother did not live beyond my fourth year. Then came the alliance with Marion, down in the South, and Princess Edith was sent to Zarbadast.” He stopped a moment before continuing. “I was seven years old at the time. My father, but forty-two, was young and strong, the ruler of the most powerful empire ever to be seen on the Continent.
“I was there the day Edith was brought before Shaamil. She was blindfolded and could not see the assembly, but she stood straight and delicate, an exotic woman, so different from what we knew,” he paused, “like you. My father stood, looked at her a long time, and commanded her be sent out. I did not wholly understand what was occurring then, but after the month of purification, they were wed.
