by Beth Brower
It was a strange moment for Eleanor, seeing him as an uncle. One of the women came and took the baby from Basaal, shooing the other children away and offering her brother-in-law a greeting. He exchanged a few words with her while taking a drink from a servant.
The entire family had now gathered with the exception of Emperor Shaamil, and Eleanor counted six princes, eleven women, and twenty-three children. Two boys, just coming into their adolescence, cornered Basaal, asking him a question with great excitement. Basaal laughed at their enthusiasm, nodded, and began relating a story.
At one point, he looked up towards the lattice, where Eleanor hid, for a brief moment. He was still speaking with his nephews, when a silence came over the room, and the family stood.
Shaamil.
Eleanor felt her chest tighten as she awaited a glimpse of the infamous emperor. Ammar had told her Shaamil had watched her arrival in Zarbadast, but she didn’t remember. Finally, he came into view, passing his grandchildren and settling himself on the throne. Snapping his fingers, a serving attendant handed him a drink, a nervous expression on her young face.
Shaamil was a handsome man, striking, tall, his bearing beautiful, with the underlying potential to demand anything. As if it were from the sight of him, Eleanor remembered the hardness of the stone beneath her. She shifted her position and looked about the family. A child was crying, one of the wives sat alone, ostracized by the others. Ammar listened wordlessly while his brothers discussed some topic of heated interest. Basaal was still talking with his nephews, but his smile had faded, his back straightened, his ease gone. The stern and brilliant magnetism of the Emperor altered everything. But then a toddler, after a failed attempt to run, picked himself back up and climbed up the stairs towards the Emperor. Bending down, Shaamil picked the boy into his arms, and began speaking to him with affection.
Emperor Shaamil had a charisma impossible to explain. Eleanor had met few people with that characteristic and no one as overwhelming as this man seemed to be even from a distance. The power of his presence, his multifaceted persona, his ability to be both cruel and affectionate—these caused Eleanor to have a frightening realization.
Blinking and sitting back, she shuddered with sudden panic. Eleanor had not expected to see it at all—the reason that Edith could have loved someone who had done all that this man had done. And, Eleanor had not expected to understand it so quickly. Eleanor looked at the emperor, now conversing with Emir, the young child nestled against his chest. Then she looked at Basaal, laughing at something one of his nephews had said.
With obvious tremulousness, Eleanor pulled herself away from the lattice.
***
“What did you think of the festivities?” Ammar asked Eleanor the next morning. “Did the acrobats entertain you?”
She was down in the cool of the garden, when he had appeared next to her.
“I didn’t stay long,” Eleanor confessed. “I saw the meal served, then I returned to my chamber.”
Surprise flashed across Ammar’s face as he sat beside her. But Eleanor brushed off his expression of inquiry, trying to convey the impression that she was very focused on sketching the garden.
“You appear troubled by something,” Ammar probed.
Eleanor breathed out, irritated by the dread she had been carrying since last night. She drummed her fingers along the bit of charcoal in her hand.
“Who of all the sons is most like the emperor?” Eleanor leveled the question at Ammar.
“Ah,” Ammar said and covered his mouth with a hand, thinking. “The answer may depend on whom you ask.”
Eleanor felt her distaste rising in her chest, and she drew her mouth into a hard line, fearing he would confirm what had been in her mind all night.
Then Ammar lifted his chin away from his hand. “I wonder if the question you would like to ask is ‘Will Basaal ever become like his father?’”
This was exactly what had plagued her, but she waited for his answer.
“My answer is that I do not know for certain,” Ammar said. “I would go as far as to say that Basaal is more like the young emperor than any of us, but I do not think he will become like the man that Shaamil is now.”
Eleanor set her sketch down and pulled her knees up, resting her heels against the marble wall she sat on, the long, white lengths of her robe falling about her legs, covering her feet.
“I always thought the tale of Princess Edith and Emperor Shaamil was beautiful as a child,” Eleanor admitted. “When I became older, I couldn’t reconcile her love for a man that I now considered a warmonger.”
Clenching her fists, Eleanor looked straight ahead. “And then, I saw him last night,” she said. “And I was both repulsed and surprised by the attraction of his presence. I realized Basaal has the same compelling nature: his mesmeric pull, making you not want to look away, his being capable of the compassionate and the terrible.
“Yet, you want him to win,” she continued. “You want him to succeed in all his endeavors,” she said, looking squarely at Ammar. “And that would mean my own defeat, if he were to become like Shaamil.”
Ammar did not look away. He faced Eleanor’s confession evenly, his eyes somber.
Eleanor motioned with her hand as if she could brush these words away, and she looked at the white walls of the palace, rising above them. Despite the draw Basaal held for her, Eleanor’s blood beat with the dust of Aemogen, and her bones were as the scaffolding of Ainsley. She was called to this role, and her allegiance was true and paramount. She was, above all else, the Queen of Aemogen.
“And so, the ten thousand miles of the world remain, and I stand my post,” Eleanor said, speaking more to herself than to Ammar.
The sound of a bird, alighting on a branch, touched the garden as Eleanor gazed down. Ammar sat still, looking contemplative.
“Now may not be the best time to tell you this,” the physician stated, and he finally stood, his hands behind his back. “But the emperor has decided your fate.”
“Which is?” Eleanor asked.
“Basaal is to be removed from his post, as commander of the Aemogen conquest, and it is to be given to Kiarash, fifth son. You will be hanged.”
Chapter Nine
“That was rather blunt of you,” Basaal said, his shoulder sore as he pulled against the taut bowstring. “What was Eleanor’s response?” He released the arrow, and it hit the target at the far end of the garden with a thud.
“She inquired after you,” Ammar said.
“Did you tell her that I would challenge the emperor’s decision?” Basaal frowned as he twisted the only red feather among the black away from his bow, notching another arrow.
“Are you planning to challenge him, then?” Ammar asked, sounding surprised.
Basaal pulled the bowstring, squinting his eyes and feeling the tension of the bow in his muscles. Then he let the arrow fly and turned towards Ammar.
“Of course I mean to challenge him,” he said.
“She must mean more to you than just what common human respect dictates.” Basaal felt Ammar watching him as he moved his fingers among the arrows of his quiver, pulling one out in a swift movement. “Tell me,” the physician continued with an interested smile. “Is she as a sister?” Basaal was set to release the arrow when Ammar had spoken these words. He grinned.
“Hardly,” he said, dropping his aim, as he threw a glance over his shoulder at Ammar.
“Is she your lover?” Ammar asked. Basaal released the arrow before turning fully to face Ammar. This time there was no smile on his face.
“Hardly,” he said again.
“Yet, you will enter a challenge for her life?” Ammar asked.
“I will,” Basaal said. “For her life and for my post.”
“Then, I will tell her so,” Ammar said, and he stood with his hands behind his back. “Has the appointment been made?”
Basaal nodded. “I go into the emperor tomorrow morning.”
The physician stood to leave,
but he paused before ascending the steps of Basaal’s garden. “You do understand,” Ammar said, “that by doing this, you’re leaving yourself open for him to play with your mind? It’s also no exaggeration to say that this could cost you your life.”
Basaal’s only answer was to send another shaft slicing through the air into the center of the target. Thud.
Yes, Basaal thought, I do understand.
***
“So, you don’t agree with my decision?” Shaamil asked, and his words sliced the air in the room.
“No, I don’t,” Basaal said as he stood before his father in the great throne room. “I take great exception to it and feel it should be challenged.”
Through the lattice, Eleanor watched the faces of those in attendance especially, the face of the emperor. With a dangerously amused expression, he considered Basaal. Ammar, sitting next to her, flicked his eyes in Eleanor’s direction as if to ask why she was worth the chance his brother was taking. But Eleanor pretended that she did not notice his scrutiny. She had enough conflict in her lungs, and she didn’t need to add Ammar’s.
Shaamil stood and paced before his throne, surveying his youngest son with a strange satisfaction in his eyes. He paced with a thinking frown. And, each time that he moved his arms, the trailing of his long robes dramatized the scene. It wasn’t until Eleanor finally caught her breath that she realized she’d not been breathing.
“I will accept the challenge in two parts,” he said. Shaamil squared himself, facing Basaal. “To regain your position in the Aemogen conquest, you must fight Kiarash, fifth son, with the weapon of your choice,” the emperor explained. “Prove yourself, and you will retain your position.”
Basaal looked towards Kiarash, and they exchanged a nod. “As for the queen’s life,” Shaamil continued. “We will make the challenge a surprise. That will give you something to look forward to.”
Eleanor’s eyes narrowed, wondering what the emperor’s definition of a surprise was.
“Well, do you accept?” Shaamil lifted a hand to his chin, watching Basaal.
“I accept,” Basaal replied.
“Tomorrow, then. And we shall see what comes of it.” As Shaamil sat again on his throne, his eyes moved from Basaal to Kiarash and then, briefly, towards the latticework where Eleanor hid. She shrunk from his gaze, her heart crashing into her stomach. Eleanor knew that he could not possibly see her, but she wondered if he had known exactly where she had been all along.
***
When Basaal was done with the food before him, he pushed it away and reclined against the arch of the window in his personal chambers, gazing down over the many layers of Zarbadast. The streets were now fading into long, purple shadows, and the sun would soon disappear. He knew that it had been his own resolve that had carried him so single-mindedly through the training of the day as he prepared himself for the challenge come morning.
Basaal did not have time for fear, and he did not have time to wonder. So, pushing any semblance of doubt from his mind, he sat on the white windowsill, absorbing the perfect temperament of evening in Zarbadast.
The sound of water trickled up from one of his personal gardens, water that had traveled in complex aqueducts from the northern mountains to grace the seven palaces with foliage and to provide the city with fresh wells. A menagerie of birds throughout the gardens brought from the far western coast, welcomed in the cool evening with their calls.
As divisive as the politics and as difficult as his personal reconciliations were, nothing matched the serenity of home to Basaal. And he sank farther into his own thoughts.
The faint ring of a bell carried through the translucent curtains of fabric hanging throughout his chamber, and a servant entered to remove his plate. The prince watched as the child approached timidly to take away his unwanted food. For the first time in his life, he thought it odd that he did not know her name. She would not meet his eyes.
They will perhaps love you, the words he had spoken to Eleanor so long ago rang now through his mind. But it is only because you are what they never will be.
What is that? she had asked then.
Immortal, he had replied. Just below the gods.
He remembered how Eleanor had laughed at that answer.
Basaal watched as the girl lifted his plate, the empty cup, and his other dining effects then turned carefully to leave. Is that how she really viewed him? Just below the gods? She was probably too young to have explored even the top of such thoughts, Basaal mused.
“What is your name?” he asked her impulsively as she was about to leave.
So frightened at being addressed, the girl dropped the plate from her shaking hands. It clattered against the floor, the brass ringing around the food spilled over the white marble.
Looking down in an obvious panic, her wide eyes full of fear, she dropped to the floor and tried to clean up the mess with her hands. Basaal slipped down from the windowsill and crouched near the girl. But she threw herself to the ground before him, her olive arms trembling under the white servant’s robes.
“It’s alright,” he said gently. “Don’t be afraid. No harm has been done.”
But she had begun to cry from fear.
“None at all,” Basaal said to assure her. He lifted her chin, and her large, dark eyes traveled to his. “Are you hurt?” he asked.
The girl shook her head, gulping and sniffling.
“Then all is well,” he said. “Will you tell me your name?”
“Sharin,” came the answer in a small voice.
“You are quite young for palace work. How old are you?” Basaal asked as he slowly gathered the spilled contents to put again onto the plate.
She sniffed again. “Five years,” she said, then the horror of her mistake filled her face once more, and her eyes glimmered as her lower lip began to tremble.
“Five?” Basaal said, caught unaware. “That’s ridiculously young for palace service!” His outburst seemed to have frightened her all the more, and she ducked her head again beneath her small arms.
“Does your mother work with you in the palace?” Basaal asked gently.
Sharin shook her head no.
Just then, a woman swept into the room, a lead servant in Basaal’s house. She saw the food, spilled on the marble floors, and the crying Sharin with one sweep of her eyes before bowing to the ground and apologizing to Basaal profusely, her face hovering mere inches above the floor.
“No,” Basaal insisted. “It was my mistake. Sharin has served well. I was clumsy.”
“It will not happen again, Your Grace,” the woman vowed and humbly began to finish cleaning while glaring at the girl. His presence only seemed to increase the tension in the room, so Basaal withdrew, wandering into the long corridor.
Guards in deep red and black stood at their posts, silent and watchful. Basaal acknowledged them as he passed, his thoughts lingering first on the girl, Sharin, and then turning towards Eleanor.
Eleanor. The apprehensions he had carefully dispelled throughout the afternoon pricked at the back of his neck again now. Basaal lifted his hands to his head as he walked the corridors, breathing out audibly. He had now been home for over three weeks, and he had seen Eleanor only twice. But they had not spoken.
It was wise—this physical separation—Basaal reminded himself as he slipped down a staircase and wandered into his own gardens, now dark from the sunset just passed. But he struggled as he sought for greater emotional distance. Basaal knew that Ammar was the safest ally Eleanor could have in Zarbadast, and Basaal had entrusted her to him. Basaal could not risk bringing any more of the emperor’s attention her way while Eleanor’s fate still remained undecided or while her fate was still tied to his own.
Basaal passed a silent guard, who stood at the foot of a long staircase that ascended to the pavilion set aside by Basaal for prayer. As he approached the pavilion, Basaal removed his boots and entered the holy space with bare feet. Several incense sticks were burning, filling the room with a sweet
smoke that floated in a hazy drift into the night. The soft light of one hundred candle flames flickered and danced against the high patterns of the decorated archways. He stood in the center, bowed his head, and placed his hands together before his face.
First, he uttered a simple prayer of supplication and preparation before dropping to his knees and placing his hand over his heart. Alone in the flame-lit pavilion, Basaal cleared his thoughts, releasing the tension from his muscles and the difficulties from his mind. The world around him seemed to clear away as he replaced each thought with expanding space and with the light of the sun, moon, and stars.
“Let it fill me,” Basaal pleaded, “that I may understand the task before me and my honor in it.”
Basaal repeated these words several times before touching two of his fingers to each Safeeraah, repeating his covenants, then lifting his fingers to his lips. The image of Eleanor, as he knelt before her, flickered through his thoughts, but Basaal let it pass, working hard to hold in his mind only the clarity that he sought and nothing else.
Later, when Basaal returned to his silent chambers, he stripped off his shirt, extinguished his candles, and fell onto his bed. As he lay there, awake in the darkness, Basaal permitted himself a painful indulgence, he thought of Aemogen and of the memories he had there. He could see the queen, standing atop the western battlements after the ceremony of the seed bringers. He could also see her on the night before the battle run, when her beauty had almost shamed him.
Crispin, he thought. Aedon. Edythe. The princess held a special place for Basaal, and he wondered how Edythe fared now, half a year away from Blaike’s death. Blaike. Basaal turned onto his stomach, folding his arms above his head, and again he saw the scene of Common Field before him, the bodies lining the road. Eleanor, her resolve, and the sound of her reasoning through a question; the expression on her face the moment that she saw him for who he really was; the feel of her skin against his hand. It all flooded through him now in a way that he hadn’t allowed since before arriving in Zarbadast.
