by Beth Brower
It was as if these visions were opened to Eleanor’s mind as the emperor spoke, and the first had filled her with a thick dread, burdening her with an unshakable weight.
“Last night,” Shaamil continued, “the dream repeated itself but in a third variation. The banners were now half silver, half bloodred. His footsteps now bore an army of mighty steeds as well as a legion of powerful snakes,” he explained. “Half of the golden crown he wore was bright; the other half, stained in blood. Do you, Queen of Aemogen, have an explanation for this?” Shaamil demanded.
Eleanor thought—as she was certain the emperor had—that the third dream indicated a choice yet to be made that would change the course of Basaal’s life and the fate of the Continent. And, if these dreams were somehow prophecy, Aemogen would be swept up into Basaal’s power either way. For, why else would he ride wearing the battle crown?
“Have you told Basaal these dreams?” Eleanor asked stiffly, refusing to answer his question.
Shaamil lifted his hand to his chin and moved the back of his finger across his mouth before answering. “I have not,” he said finally.
“Then, why tell me?” Eleanor asked.
The emperor rose from his throne and approached where she stood, the snake moving in a serpentine path around his body. He stepped so close that Eleanor was forced to look up to see his face. He made a quick movement with his hand, revealing a small knife with a jeweled handle, and he brought it to Eleanor’s throat. She swallowed, feeling the cold edge tempting her skin to break.
“I tell you,” he said, his voice slithering into her ear, “for, I believe you are the reason his fate may change, and I am uncertain yet if it is for good or ill.”
She felt the blade split her skin like a slit of fire, but Eleanor stared back unflinchingly as a single line of blood burned its way down her neck. Then the snake stretched forward from around Shaamil’s shoulder, and she felt the whisper of its black tongue along her jaw. Eleanor shuddered but did not break her expression. The Emperor gripped her arm with his hand.
“These symbols have meaning to you,” he insisted. “Tell me.”
“The only symbol I see is of your own venom poured into every snake,” Eleanor practically spat back, speaking as sharply as she could. “You’re poisonous, with a blackened soul. It will be a matter of little time before every serpent turns and eats your house, leaving it to waste.”
Shaamil’s eyes gleamed at her bravery even as he pressed the tip of his blade under her chin, forcing her face upward. “Tell me the significance of the crown,” he demanded. Eleanor was too tired and too scared to placate and pretend.
“No.”
Laughing, Shaamil stepped away. And, at the knife’s absence, she let her chin fall. Shaamil returned to his throne and sat again in its shadows. With a flick of his hand, in signal, the snake eased down his arm, dropping itself onto the floor.
The serpent rose from its coil, making the sound of a stifled scream before shooting forward, racing towards Eleanor’s feet. She stumbled backwards to get away. But the serpent sprang, leaping towards her exposed neck, and sank its teeth into the skin above her collarbone. She cried out, falling backward. A warm pain rushed into her neck as she rolled over to be free of the beast, but it would not let go. Eleanor struggled against her bonds. Finally, she pulled herself to her knees and forced her shoulder to her jaw in one quick movement. The snake dropped from her neck, and Eleanor stood, crying out as she kicked it away from her.
Shaamil laughed.
“I have often found this to be an interesting revelation of character,” he said. “Your actions illustrate a difference between you and me, a weakness that you carry.” He dropped his hand as the snake slithered back to the throne, wrapping itself about his arm and returning into darkness. “Where you kicked the serpent away,” he explained, “I would have crushed it.”
Then the shadows deepened, and Eleanor leaned forward, feeling herself losing consciousness.
***
“A snake bite?” Basaal demanded, his voice shaking as he worked to control it.
“One of Father’s vipers,” Ammar said. “I explained to Eleanor their venom was taken out for poisons and that the remaining amount only caused discomfort for a day or two. The knife cut was but a scratch,” he added. “She was in no danger from it—a psychological game, that is all.”
“No danger?” Basaal huffed. “Did she say what he said?”
“She did not.”
Ammar had come soon after Basaal finished his morning prayers to tell him of the night’s events. As they stood in the long, arched corridor, Basaal paced, incensed. A thought crossed his mind, and he laughed darkly.
“What?” Ammar asked.
“In one of our early conversations, Eleanor said that I was jaded, world-weary, and I thought her a simpleton for it. I may have even laughed,” he explained. “Since then, I have seen a life beyond Zarbadast, and—” He turned and looked directly at Ammar. “Is it strange that after everything—all the conquests, the death of Emaad, and the theatrics with Eleanor’s life—it is just this morning that I feel some part of me, some shadow, no longer belongs in this life?”
A servant came into the corridor, carrying a tray. When she saw the two princes, she bowed slowly and then hurried past. Once she was gone, Ammar turned away from Basaal.
“Not strange at all.”
Chapter Thirteen
Eleanor prepared herself for what she thought might be an ordeal. It had come, the night before the wedding ceremony—one night closer to her freedom—and Eleanor’s chambers filled with women, laughing and joking amongst themselves. Eleanor, who had never seen such a flurry of color and jewels, submitted to their rituals without speaking much.
She had noticed Laaeitha was there with the other women, relatives and young women tied to the Zarbadast palaces. Servants came and went, bringing food and drink in plenty, and it was as festive a gathering as any Eleanor had seen. Hannia orchestrated the process, calling out what needed to be done and moving things along.
First, there were several baths, a ritual to represent the month of purification being now complete. Next, Eleanor was given only a simple white nightdress and a sheer robe to pull over her bare arms. The women sat Eleanor on her bed and gathered around her. Then, again, her hands and feet were washed with soft cloths, then perfumed, and then oiled.
“The celebrations of the next seven days will be nice,” Laaeitha said as she combed Eleanor’s long hair and dried it with a towel. “But, tonight is for the women only,” she explained. “We will laugh and talk for hours. But you must forgive our silliness, for it is an event we all look forward to. Even if,” Laaeitha said and leaned closer to Eleanor’s ears, “there are some young women here who will cry many tears for not being chosen as Basaal’s first wife.”
Eleanor almost looked away embarrassed, but something in Laaeitha’s expression seemed to be such a mirror of Edythe that she rolled her eyes instead and smiled. Once Eleanor’s hair was sufficiently dry, Laaeitha and another young woman wove golden cords—dripping with rubies, diamonds, and pearls—into her copper locks.
“The gemstones of Basaal’s house,” Laaeitha told her. “The weavings will come out after the wedding night.” As they worked, Eleanor felt certain the effect would make her look ridiculous.
“Now it is time for the most important preparation of any bride,” Hannia said when Eleanor’s hair was complete. “We will draw the afta dar on your hands and your feet.” Servants brought trays, laden with ornate containers of gold and silver ink.
Laaeitha laughed, seeing Eleanor’s uncertain expression. “It is a sacred pattern, the afta dar, that is drawn on the bride’s hands and feet,” she explained. “It is a high art in Imirillia and will remain on your skin for ten days.”
They began with Eleanor’s hands, two or three women on each, placing their small metal awls into the bowls of ink, then moving them across Eleanor’s skin in quick, decisive movements. The ink felt cold, rem
inding Eleanor of the sensation of Aemogen rain falling on her skin. The women covered each finger, her hands, wrists, and up towards her elbows.
Endless patterns of geometric shapes took form before her eyes, entwined with representations of flowers and birds. It was the most elegant artistry Eleanor had ever seen, and she told them so. The women smiled and continued on with their work, repeating the whimsical elegance of the afta dar on each foot and around her ankles. The wives worked wordlessly until someone would make a comment about the wedding night or about one of the princes, and then laughter would fill the room until they cried.
“Hold still,” Hannia chided Eleanor when she had ventured a smile. More than two hours passed before the last strokes were made in the woven designs of silver and gold.
“I don’t recognize myself,” Eleanor said, being careful not to touch anything. This caused all the women to cluck and laugh.
“It is time for the final mark,” Hannia said as she approached the bed with a large brass bowl, filled with a deep red liquid.
Instead of using the small pointed awls they had used before, Hannia brought out what appeared to be a long needle.
“This will take some time, and you must be completely still,” Hannia instructed. She lifted Eleanor’s left arm and turned it over, revealing the blank space on her forearm. All the younger women gathered around in a circle. Hannia said something that Eleanor did not understand, Basaal was the only word she had recognized.
They smiled and exchanged quick phrases, but Eleanor was distracted by Hannia’s preparations. The maid laid a soft black cloth below Eleanor’s arm and put the needle into the red ink as she began to sing a tune, a melancholy, yet sweet melody. Then the women in the circle slowly joined in, singing as the maid dipped the needle into the ink and then pierced Eleanor’s skin.
Eleanor flinched, and Hannia again told her that she must not move. “There will not be much pain,” she promised. “Do not think on this. Think instead on your husband.”
Eleanor could not yet make out what the design would become, but Hannia’s skill seemed far beyond that of anyone else in the room.
“Do not look at the mark,” Laaeitha told Eleanor. “It brings bad luck. Trust Hannia.”
Eleanor obeyed, looking instead at the patterns, now dry, on her right hand. She flinched as Hannia continued working the needle through her skin. Then Eleanor sat up, stiff, as she realized what was happening.
What a fool she’d been. How silly to not have realized before. A mark, on the left forearm, in deep red ink the color of dried blood—this was the mark of Basaal’s house, and Eleanor was receiving a permanent pattern declaring her to be his wife. Feeling a rise of panic, Eleanor almost told Hannia to stop. She almost pulled her arm away and ordered every woman from the room. But the thought of Aemogen flashed across her mind, and Eleanor swallowed and said nothing. She had come too far to foil her plans now. She would return home, mark or no mark.
Instead of thinking about the pain, she focused on whatever thoughts wandered through her head. Edythe would have loved to see such traditions as the afta dar, the bright colors, the sparkle of Imirillian women as they walked through the gardens. I must remember to tell her, she thought.
Crispin too would appreciate narratives of the Imirillian festivities. Eleanor creased her brow. He would love the opportunity to travel. Not often, for he was of Aemogen as much as any of them. But she must encourage him to go, sometime, somewhere. Perhaps that is was why Crispin had taken to Basaal immediately, speaking of travel and culture, Crispin was never bored with the stories that Basaal had to tell.
She had never bored of Basaal’s company either while in Aemogen. Yes, he was infuriating and frustrating, but Eleanor had never felt displeased when Hegleh had fallen into step with Thrift on the battle run. And after, when she sat as a prisoner in his pavilion, Basaal had been frank and honest, showing sincerity in weighty matters that Wil Traveler may have dismissed offhand. Eleanor ran these thoughts through her mind, retracing the steps of her journey, the things she had seen, and the tension of Zarbadast, always hovering beneath its beauty. Basaal. What the Emperor had said about him.
A rather painful prick in her arm pulled Eleanor from her thoughts, causing her to wince, and she almost pulled it away from Hannia. “I am almost finished, Your Grace,” the woman said. “Please, be still.”
So Eleanor indulged in an internal sigh and thought of Ainsley castle. They would be nearing the end of a long winter, and soon, the snows would give way to patches of green, and another year in Aemogen would commence.
“Now,” Hannia said, her voice made of pride and spent concentration. Eleanor looked down at her arm. It was almost as she had expected—in the shaped of a shield with the symbol of a rising bird wearing a crown—and it was beautiful. But, unlike Basaal’s mark, Eleanor’s arm bore a stunning display of flowers and vines, wrapping around themselves, with small birds tucked in among the ornate blooms and hints of the geometric patterns she had become accustomed to while in Zarbadast. Beneath the pattern, her skin hinted an angry red, and her arm throbbed from the application.
The women all waited, quiet, to see if Eleanor would give her approval. Hannia looked down, her cheeks rising and falling as she nervously worked her mouth.
“It is, I—” Eleanor offered her most gracious smile and reached her right hand over to Hannia’s. “I have never seen anything so beautiful,” she finally managed to say. “You are an artisan of the highest order. Thank you.” The women all laughed simultaneously, seeming relieved not only at Eleanor’s approval but also at having the preparations finalized, so they could be off to their own beds. For, it was now late into the night.
They parted in small groups, laughing and calling as they disappeared into the corridor. Hannia was the last to leave. She finished arranging the bowls and trays of unused paint on the table against the wall, then cleaned Eleanor’s mark with a cool rag and a special salve to mute the pain, and finally pulled the coverlet and blankets down so Eleanor could crawl into bed.
“Do not worry about the afta dar. It will not smear or smudge,” she explained. “And, in ten days’ time, it will wash off as easily as desert sand.”
After seeing Eleanor well situated, Hannia extinguished each lamp in the room before slipping out the door.
***
She was not long alone.
Voices came in through Eleanor’s window. Then another sound followed. Eleanor pulled herself up, glancing around for anything that might be useful in defending herself. The snakebite on her neck had become two small scabs; the knife mark, all but gone. But Eleanor’s fury with the emperor had not ebbed and she would not go without a fight. Reaching for a brass statue on her bedside table, Eleanor crouched farther into the shadows.
As she had feared, the silhouette of a man appeared in the window, hovering there for a moment before dropping down to the floor. He moved silently and quickly to the door, easing the lock into place before turning towards Eleanor’s bed. Still in the shadows, she raised the statue higher, her blood pumping in each finger pressed against its cold metal.
The man seemed to be waiting until his eyes adjusted to the darkness, but he stood outside the patch of soft moonlight, and so, Eleanor could not see his face.
“Don’t come a step closer,” she said.
The man in shadow laughed and spoke as he stepped towards her. “Truly sorry to have frightened you,” he said, inching forward. “But would you please put that down? Being assaulted by the symbol of fertility is not something I’d like to experience.”
Then Prince Basaal stepped into the moonlight, easing himself onto the foot of her bed.
“You frightened me nearly to death,” Eleanor hissed, relieved and irritated at the same time, setting the statue down with distaste. “I should hang you!” she whispered fiercely. “How did you come into the women’s quarters?”
Despite the darkness, Eleanor could see Basaal grin as he held up a finger and glanced about the room. Elea
nor was about to respond with quick words—hot off her tongue—but he held up his hand again and pointed towards the door. After conducting a quick survey of the room, behind drapes and furniture, he came back to sit on the side of her bed.
“I thought we had already gone over this in Aemogen.” Basaal shot her an amused glance. “Better to know if someone is hiding in your room before rather than after we’ve discussed any details of our plan.”
Eleanor pulled a small device from her bedside table, intent on lighting a lamp there. It was an awkward contraption, made of different materials that sparked when snapped against each other a certain way. She lifted the lamp and tried to strike a light.
After a few attempts, Basaal put his hand out, his eyebrows arched. “May I?”
“Please,” Eleanor responded with little grace.
Basaal moved his fingers about the device and sparks jumped onto the wick of the lamp, illuminating the bed where they sat. Basaal handed it back to Eleanor with a smile but stopped as he considered her for the first time. His eyes traveled along her hands, her face, and then her hair.
“Your hair is a mess with jewels,” he said, smiling. “I hope you will manage to sleep at all.”
“I won’t get any sleep,” Eleanor responded, “if men keep sneaking into my bedchamber or abducting me from the gardens in the middle of the night.”
“You mean I am not the first?” Basaal countered with a jaunty grin.
“Basaal!” Eleanor said, lifting her hands in tired frustration.
“Quiet,” he hissed. “I only bribed the guards outside the wall. If anybody else hears me, I’ll have to bribe them with my entire fortune. Just calm yourself.” Then Basaal’s smile turned into a question. “Ammar told me about the viper and the knife. He didn’t harm you in any other way, did he?”
