by Beth Brower
“No.” Eleanor shook her head. “Although, he told me several things about you that I chose not to believe.”
“Like what?”
Eleanor did not wish to repeat them, but she asked, “Is it true you have the greatest fortune of all the brothers?”
“I couldn’t say.” Basaal shrugged, confused at the apparent lack of relevance. “I do know my mind for business and trade is sharp. And I care fastidiously for those in my employ.”
“Do not worry about what your father said. It’s not worth consideration.” Eleanor brushed a strand of hair from her face, and in the lamplight, the afta dar shimmered.
This caught Basaal’s eye. “May I?”
Eleanor extended her arm, and Basaal wrapped his fingers beneath it, tracing the lines on the top of her hand. “I see they have begun the afta dar.”
“Begun?” Eleanor responded. “Don’t you mean finished?”
“No,” Basaal said as he turned her hand over to see the marks on her palm. “In the morning, they will put on the finishing touches, attaching several small jewels.” He whistled, something Eleanor had never heard him do. “These patterns are stunning. They must like you very much. My brother’s wives will eat you alive for yours are far better than theirs were.”
“They helped paint the designs themselves,” Eleanor said, lifting her chin, feeling defensive of the sisters. Basaal smiled and looked at her hand with admiration before turning it palm down and pushing the sleeve of her robe up gently to see the complete design.
“It is an art highly valued in our culture,” he explained. “Some women gain great prominence with their talents for the afta dar.” He nodded his approval as he turned her arm over. There, on her forearm, was the scarlet shield. Basaal pulled back as if the mark had been of fire.
“What does it mean?” Eleanor asked quietly.
He cursed, and looked down towards the floor.
“It is the symbol of my house, the house of Basaal, seventh son. It means you are my wife, that you belong to me.” He pulled back the sleeve on his left arm. The same deep red shield Eleanor had seen before, aged and more masculine, was permanently marked on his skin.
“I had assumed so,” Eleanor said, attempting to nod matter-of-factly. “I considered having a row with Hannia to stop it from happening, but I know I must go through the ceremony in full before I can escape home again, and so,” she sighed, “here we are.”
“I am so sorry, Eleanor. I had forgotten.” Basaal’s eyes traveled around the room as if he wished now to look at anything but her. “I had hoped to leave you with no reminders that this had ever happened.”
Eleanor groaned, resting back against the velvet cushions. Basaal began to run his fingers against the calluses on his hand as he leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees.
She inspected the mark before her again, resigning herself to it. Then she breathed out humorously. “It’s not the custom of our people to mark our skin,” she said. “We usually reserve that for cattle.”
Eleanor had expected him to laugh and respond with a quip of some sort, but Basaal shook his head and frowned at the floor.
“I truly am sorry,” he said in Eleanor’s native tongue. “I am sorry for all of it.”
“It is only a mark,” Eleanor consoled, trying also to convince herself that it was of little importance.
“No.” Basaal shook his head. “It is a symbol.”
***
“Men have created much beauty,” Dantib said as he waved his hand towards the delicately carved spires. “We tie ourselves to it. But beauty does not leave because you choose a higher way of being,” Dantib explained. “For goodness and holiness increase your capacity to feel beauty around you. Do not despair of what you have left behind; it is what lies before you that is more than imagined.”
Basaal looked up towards the Zarbadast palace, just catching the last pink rays of the desert sunrise.
“Are you trying to make me feel better for sending you away?” Basaal asked his old friend and mentor, the weight of losing him behind these words.
“No, I was not referring to my journey,” Dantib said. “I was reminding you that you still can choose what lies ahead of you.”
“What if I choose to stay on my given way?” Basaal asked. “Doing my best to live in honor and transcendence, lifting those around me to a higher path?”
“That very well may be your path,” Dantib said. He turned and finished arranging his provisions in his bag, securing the clasps and throwing it over his shoulder. “If a seeker is true, he will know in his heart if he has found his way,” he explained. “You must have the courage to ask this question of yourself. But I warn you,” Dantib said, turning his eyes on Basaal’s face, “you may hear the answer that your journey still lies ahead.”
“Do you feel that this is in your path?” Basaal asked, motioning towards Dantib’s preparations. The old man placed his hand on Basaal’s back with paternal affection.
“I feel that a pathway has opened up before me that is good,” he answered. “My real purpose in being here, in staying in Zarbadast—even after what your father has chosen to become—was you. Perhaps I have given you everything I could,” he added. “Now you must choose alone how to go about your days.”
The day broke, sunlight pouring into the courtyard, a golden light falling upon the lush plants, now vibrant and green. Basaal felt the warmth of it on his back, and he hesitated a moment before turning his face towards it, closing his eyes in the brightness.
“Dantib?” A question was evident in Basaal’s voice. “Do you believe the Illuminating God allows us to have friendship and love after this life?”
“Yes.” The old man lifted his hand to Basaal’s cheek and patted it as if the prince were still a little boy, sneaking through the stables. “Did he not promise Seraagh that she would have her love after the work of this world was done?” Dantib asked. “Now, do not worry. I go to take our supplies outside the city and will return tomorrow. No one will think it strange,” he added. “Then I will be back and ready to take your Eleanor to safety.”
Basaal embraced the stable master, kissing him on the cheek before stepping back and setting both hands on Dantib’s frail shoulders. “Thank you—thank you for all you have ever done,” Basaal said earnestly to the stable master. “You have taught me honor, and I will not forget the price of such a gift. After this week, we may not see each other again in this life. And so, I wish you a good journey and a safe homecoming to wherever you decide your home will be.”
“May the light of the sun be your way,” Dantib replied. “And, may you choose to be happy in that path.” Dantib cupped his hand around Basaal’s neck and winked. “Now you must go and prepare for your wedding.”
***
Eleanor slept fitfully, her dreams vivid and foreign. She woke to a knock on her chamber door. Hannia entered, followed by a handful of servants from the night before, armed with endless trays and several trunks. They called out to Eleanor, and she responded with a tired smile.
“Come, you must bathe,” Hannia said. “And don’t worry after the afta dar. It will not wash away.” She led Eleanor into the antechamber. A long row of servants, who had been waiting in the hallway, entered the washroom, each carrying a pot of steaming water. Eleanor sat in the window while they filled the large basin. Then, finally, Hannia clucked and shut the door.
She helped Eleanor undress and wrapped a beautiful cloth around her hair. “We do not want to get your hair wet again,” she explained. “It would ruin all of our work.”
Their work had kept Eleanor awake half the night. “I have more precious stones running through my hair than all the crown jewels of Aemogen,” Eleanor said as Hannia finished tucking the ends of the cloth into place.
Hannia smiled warmly and shooed Eleanor into the basin. Once Eleanor had settled down into the bath, Hannia lifted several small vials filled with oils and began to let drops fall into the water.
“For calm,” Hannia
explained.
Eleanor sank lower into the water, being careful so her hair would not get wet.
“For beauty,” Hannia said as she added another oil. “For courage.” The smell of fresh oranges mixed with the scent of a thousand flowers filled the chamber, and Eleanor closed her eyes.
“For health.” There was a gleam in Hannia’s voice, so Eleanor opened her eyes to look at the woman. “And for a successful wedding night, eh? Let us hope that the prince is a good lover.”
Eleanor almost died from mortification.
After the bath, Hannia helped Eleanor into a long robe and whisked her back to her chambers. In the light of morning, Eleanor looked again in wonder at the afta dar on her hands and feet.
In her room, the women who had come with Hannia had laid out countless pieces of clothing, all beautiful. “You will have a wardrobe for each day,” Hannia explained. “Or several, depending on what ceremonies are to be had. All of these will be taken to Basaal’s palace, but I thought you might enjoy seeing some of them now, so I arranged to bring them here first.” The maid smiled at her own thoughtfulness as she ran her hands over a garment of deep blue.
“Basaal said the wedding celebrations would last seven days?” Eleanor asked.
“Yes. The ceremony is this morning, as you know,” Hannia replied. “And then you will have feasts and celebrations, and you will be invited by the brothers and their wives to be guests for meals and private parties.”
“And after that?” Eleanor asked, curious about what she would miss.
“On the evening of the seventh day, the prince officially offers you several rooms in his palace, and your Imirillian life will have begun.”
This notion, of being locked away in elegant chambers, was enough to shake Eleanor from asking any more questions about life after the next seven days.
“What do I wear for the ceremony this morning?” Eleanor asked as she ran her fingers along a fine silk gown, ornately beaded and embroidered.
“A special gown,” Hannia said, looking pleased. “Every other day, I will help you prepare the gown of your choice,” she explained. “But, for the wedding ceremony, you will wear the dress of Basaal’s house. It is an honor given only to the first wife, never again to be repeated. But, first you must begin by selecting what jewelry you would like to keep. Prince Basaal has sent several trunks from his palace for you to choose from.”
“Basaal sent jewelry from his palace?” Eleanor asked as she eyed the chests suspiciously. “Is it all his?”
“Yes,” Hannia smiled. “And every young woman in Imirillia is jealous because you are to be given first choice, for Basaal is a very wealthy prince.”
Hannia opened several of the large black chests, revealing fine jewelry fashioned of gold, brass, and silver, studded with gems of every color. There were several small velvet bags among the finery. “For gem stones not yet set into a piece,” Hannia explained as she saw Eleanor’s curiosity.
The servants gathered around, gawking and pointing. One young woman reached her fingers out to touch a bracelet and received a quick rap to the top of her head from Hannia. Eleanor stepped away from the group, wishing for space. She was not used to having so many women around her and found it suffocating.
“Hannia,” Eleanor said, pulling her aside. “Could we please dismiss the other girls until they’re needed?” she asked. “I cannot think with so many women in the room.”
“Of course,” Hannia said, and she clapped her hands, rushing the reluctant girls out into the hallway.
With the door shut and Eleanor finally alone with Hannia, she began to look over the opulent mess that surrounded her: dresses and sashes and endless necklaces, bangles, hair ornaments, and rings. The fabrics were finer than anything Eleanor owned save for the wedding dress that had belonged to her mother—it was a delicate white slip of a gown, lightly embroidered with gold.
“Must I do this now?” Eleanor argued lightly. “I would rather prepare myself for the ceremony and worry about such things later.”
“And you will not even look,” Hannia rebuked Eleanor as she placed her hands on her hips. “Well, it is not my morning sun.” She tossed this Imirillian phrase off her lips with a sigh. “Let us prepare you for the wedding ceremony.”
“And which is the gown I am to wear?” Eleanor asked, scanning the pieces laid out for her.
Hannia handed Eleanor a heavy key and pointed to the trunk that had been left on a table near the center of the room. Eleanor took the key and crossed the room, placing it into the lock of the chest. As she turned it to the left, Eleanor could hear the catch release with a subtle click. Then she lifted the lid and stared.
Reaching her hands in, she grabbed the garment by the shoulders and pulled it partially out of the trunk. It was black with the most beautiful pearls and cuts of diamond, sewn into perfect patterns similar to the afta dar on Eleanor’s hands and feet.
Eleanor ran her finger over the patterns on the bodice and looked up at Hannia.
“A bride in black?” she asked as she arched her eyebrows.
“A bride,” Hannia corrected, “in the traditional color of her husband’s house.” Hannia came to Eleanor’s side, helping her lift the heavy gown from the trunk and lay it across Eleanor’s bed. “Prince Basaal’s colors are black and red,” Hannia instructed. “And his house’s gem stones are ruby, diamond, and pearl, so shall his bride be adorned.”
Eleanor marveled. “It is not in the style I have seen the other wives wear,” she noted. “This gown looks more Marion than Imirillian.”
Hannia nodded. “The prince has clear memories of his mother. When the bridal clothes were commissioned, he specified that this gown should be so, to honor Princess Edith.”
“How long did it take to create?” Eleanor could not take her eyes away from its beauty.
“Three years,” Hannia said. “They began when he was sixteen years of age, and it was finished sometime during his nineteenth year.”
Eleanor eyed the gown nervously. “But, how did they know what size to cut the gown?” she asked. “Had he another bride in mind?”
“No, you are the first,” Hannia said as she slipped Eleanor out of her robes. “The dressmakers made it the golden size, in comparison to the prince, and then adjustments are made according to the bride,” she explained. “We hardly needed to change a thing for you. I took your measurements, you remember, the first week of your purification?”
Hannia pulled the gown off the bed and opened the many clasps that went all along the back. Then she told Eleanor to disrobe. When Eleanor stepped into the gown, Hannia pull the weighty garment up around her waist. Eleanor noticed that the pearls and diamonds twisted into the most delicate and beautiful blossom-like patterns. Next, Hannia helped Eleanor slip her arms through the sleeves and then pulled the dress up around Eleanor’s midsection.
“Breathe in, Your Grace,” Hannia said.
Eleanor did as she was told, and Hannia clasped the dress so tight that Eleanor thought she would faint. Once the maid had secured the back, she pulled the full skirt around Eleanor and straightened out the long train. Eleanor glanced back, amazed to see that the train covered most of the room behind her.
“Did Basaal anticipate his bride being able to walk in this gown?” Eleanor asked in amazement. “It is so heavy.”
Hannia laughed and clucked. “It is our tradition that a royal bride should stun the crowd,” she explained. “And I think you will manage to do just that.” Hannia removed a few more items from the trunk, bringing over a pair of sandals in gold and pearl, and adjusted them to fit Eleanor’s feet. “Now, we will finish the afta dar,” she said, “and do something with that fire hair of yours.”
Hannia sat Eleanor down on the bench and brought over a bowl filled with the gold paint and a tray covered with powders and pastes and very small gemstones: rubies and diamonds. She worked fast and simply continued the elegant design, but now adding lines of the beautiful deep red stones to the feminine patterns. Th
ese followed the existing curves and then opened up into flowers. Then diamonds were added. Eleanor marveled, staring at her hands and wrists. They did not seem to belong to her body anymore but were now wild and beautiful creatures of their own.
When Hannia was finished, she instructed Eleanor not to touch anything while her hands dried. Then she continued to work on Eleanor’s hair. The beautiful jewels and golden braids from the night before remained in place as Hannia pulled Eleanor’s hair back, away from her face, securing it so that it would fall down her back. Then she told Eleanor to close her eyes, and she painted soft layers of gold over her eyelids.
“Open your eyes and look up,” Hannia said next as she continued to work on Eleanor’s eyes. “I am putting this on your lashes to make them look dark and lush.”
“What is it?” Eleanor asked.
“It is magic,” the maid said and smiled.
Then Hannia held up a jar of deep red cream the same color as the mark on Eleanor’s arm. “This is for your lips,” she said. Using her finger, Hannia rubbed a dab of it across Eleanor’s lips. “I believe you are now ready,” she said solemnly. “Would you like to see yourself?”
Eleanor averted her eyes from Hannia’s gaze, a flush rising in her cheeks. This was supposed to be the gown of Prince Basaal’s true bride, a work of devotion, and Eleanor wore it as a ruse, a trick, until she could escape back to Aemogen. It felt, Eleanor admitted, like a desecration, like something holy was being twisted. But Eleanor quenched her guilt as much as she could. After all, it was not as if she had chosen a false marriage.
“I might as well,” Eleanor replied, feeling strange. Hannia opened the doors of the wardrobe revealing a large full-length mirror inside.
Eleanor stared.
It was another woman staring back at her, someone striking, whose eyes were big and shinning, and whose lips were blood red. The gown was tight through her waist and bodice, but the neckline went from shoulder to shoulder, hanging in folds, as if a crescent moon had been turned on its side, curving away from her neck. The sleeves came only to her elbows, leaving her forearms bare. But a long, beautiful stream of black fabric and pearls fell from each elbow to the ground in an old Marion fashion. The full skirt hugged her waist and then dropped in abundant folds across the white marble floor. The train was extensive and more beautifully embroidered than Eleanor could have imagined.
