by Beth Brower
Eleanor closed her eyes.
“I don’t need you to love me,” Basaal continued, releasing her hand. “There is still fondness and affection—”
“I do,” Eleanor interrupted him, speaking forcefully. “I would chose you if I could. We both know that.” Basaal began to speak, but Eleanor held up her hand. “And, as nice as that would be were love our only consideration, greater things hang in the balance. What you propose may very well be for the best. On the outside, it appears almost an ideal reconciliation. But something in me is telling me to fight for Aemogen’s independence until my last breath.” She looked him squarely in the eye. “And that is what I must do.”
Basaal looked towards the floor. “It is fine that you have set your course, Eleanor, but my course is to invade your country. Once you disappear, my father will stop at nothing to see you dead and to see all of Aemogen in humiliating submission.”
“But even if I choose to stay with you, Basaal,” she argued, “the emperor has made it quite clear that repercussions will come down on the heads of my people as an example of what happens to any nation who fights against Imirillia. Are you to tell me that you can counteract all his plans?” Eleanor challenged. “With the consequences already in motion, would you really lead me to believe that you can alter his set course?”
Basaal ran his fingers through his short hair. “No. I can’t even be assured that he would let me send you back to Ainsley,” Basaal admitted. He shrugged, although he was clearly upset and seemed to be struggling for his composure. “Very well,” he said. “We will see this thing through and hope that each of us can live with the outcome.”
The words were bitter—and true.
Eleanor set her hand on his. “There is one possibility we have not yet discussed.” Basaal met her eye but did not speak. “You could come with me to Aemogen. Come as my husband and be free of your father.”
As he registered her words, Basaal’s face was stripped of all emotion save surprise, and he looked as if she had hit him without warning. “Come with you? Leave everything behind and set myself against the emperor in open contempt?” Basaal pulled his hand away from hers. “Impossible. No self-imposed exile would ever call me from my home.”
Eleanor set her face in disapproval. “A home where you cannot trust most of those around you? A home where treachery underlines every political act?” she challenged. “Have you even discovered who sent the assassin yet? Basaal, what if you had been killed?”
“A home,” he responded, “where I have a duty and a place.” He cut the air with his hand. “I have a role to fill in my family and a responsibility to all who serve beneath me. I oversee soldiers and merchants, run trade routes, and employ artisans and scholars—thousands of people, Eleanor! You know this!”
Eleanor shook her head, a practical look overlaying her sad expression. “Even if I had the freedom to choose a marriage to you with no other considerations—forgetting all the politics and statecraft, knowing that I could return to Ainsley and that you could travel between the Imirillian Empire and Aemogen—I would refuse it, Basaal.”
Eleanor bit her lip and shook her head slightly. “For if I would return to Ainsley,” she continued, “you would spend most of your time here in Zarbadast, leaving me uncertain for months whether you were well, let alone alive. I would have given myself to you and, before long, found myself married to a stranger, a man I did not recognize anymore as the years moved forward.
“Our children would not have known you, unless they went to Zarbadast and became, to some measure, lost to me. It would have always been impossible, for your wanderer’s mark rests above your heart, and your heart belongs in Zarbadast. More than the ten thousand miles of the world lay between us.” Eleanor stood. “It is better that we part in a day’s time and let this—” she said, waving a hand between them, “end.”
***
Basaal would not look at Eleanor as he sat, considering her words, envisioning the future she had set before his eyes. He knew she was right. She waited only a moment before turning away and walking through the arched doorway into the bedchamber. After a few minutes, he stood and began to extinguish the lights in the sitting room. Then Hannia came through the doors, but Basaal dismissed her quickly.
“We have no need of any services tonight,” he said. “Both Eleanor and I are quite tired, and Eleanor has already gone to bed. I do not think we will need anything tomorrow either, as we hope to spend the morning alone.” Basaal tried to lighten his expression as he waved the confused maid out of the room. He locked the doors and pulled at them—a habit of making sure the lock had caught—then Basaal crossed the dark sitting room and entered their bedchamber.
His bedchamber, Basaal corrected himself.
Eleanor sat on the edge of the bed, looking somber, slowly removing the jewelry she wore and pulling the pins from her copper hair, placing them on the table beside the bed. He leaned against the open doorway, his arms crossed, watching her.
She had already slipped out of her elaborate dress—it was folded carefully over a chair—and she wore a delicate white nightgown. Aside from the weight he could see behind her eyes, the entire scene was serene and feminine. When Eleanor finished her preparations, she met his eye, and Basaal swallowed, regaining his composure before speaking. “I pray to the Illuminating God that I will never have to face you in battle, Eleanor.”
“You must pray that the lives of our men will be spared.”
“Then stay.”
Eleanor’s eyes were solemn. “Everything in me speaks that I must go,” she said.
Tired, Basaal pushed himself away from the wall to prepare himself for bed. He pulled several cushions onto the floor and then washed his face in a basin of water. But, instead of retreating to his cushions to sleep, after he had extinguished all the lights, he came and sat on the edge of the bed where Eleanor lay, facing the window. The moonlight fell onto the surfaces of the room with a soft white glow, and Basaal knew Eleanor’s eyes studied his profile. Then she placed her hand in his.
Eleanor did not speak, but when Basaal lay down beside her, she turned her face into his chest as if a refuge could be found there. Basaal pulled her closer to him and watched the night sky above Zarbadast through the open window. After what seemed a long time, Eleanor’s breathing deepened, and he knew that she had crossed into sleep.
***
***
When Basaal woke it was still the middle of the night, but his arms were empty. Basaal turned his face towards a pulsing light across the room. Eleanor was sitting at the table with a small oil lamp lit, concentrating on whatever map she had conjured up in her mind. Basaal had seen that face before; it was born of the necessity of leading her country to war. The pain he felt in his chest caught him off guard, and Basaal swallowed and looked away. For he knew that she was again searching for a way to defeat him.
***
Some time before dawn, Eleanor moved her hand towards Basaal, but she did not find him there next to her. She opened her eyes in the earliest light that morning dared offer, a dim gift. He knelt before the open doorway leading into the garden. The red curtains, delicate and light, wafted through the air, touching him lightly. Basaal knelt with his hands over his heart, his lips moving with intense devotion, though no words came out. Eleanor’s heart felt conflicting respect and panic as she watched him pray, wondering if what he sought was greater wisdom in leading his army against hers.
***
Upon Eleanor’s request, Ammar came for a brief visit. He did not stay long. But as he went to leave Eleanor embraced him, thanking him for his gift and for his attentiveness before the marriage. Ammar’s face almost crossed over into a question, but he caught himself.
“Say nothing of it,” he replied. “I, for one, am relieved to have my personal space back. I would concede to you visiting occasionally.”
Eleanor smiled and kissed his cheek. “Thank you,” she said again.
After Ammar departed, Eleanor and Basaal spoke very little but sta
yed near each other. In the largest window along the wall of Basaal’s sitting room, they sat on the windowsill, looking down over endless terraces of buildings, markets, and houses. For the final celebration, the holy day of purification, the entire city had gone to the streets. Eleanor sat against one wall of the window’s recess, and Basaal sat across from her against the opposite wall, their feet almost touching. The ledge where they were sitting had not yet seen the sun and still felt cold despite the increasing heat of the day.
Basaal stared over the city, more informal than Eleanor had ever seen him. The sleeves on his black shirt were rolled up to his elbows, and his feet were bare. Eleanor looked away from the city, on occasion, to study him; his face, his olive skin, the bright, flax-blue eyes of Marion. He sat with his arms on his knees, his head resting against the white marble at his back, his eyes wandering the lines of the city. Basaal’s hair was messy, and there were shadows under his eyes. Eleanor studied his face as if it were an Imirillian text that she was committing to memory. Some beauty you never want to forget, she thought, remembering Edythe’s phrase, which she had spoken to Eleanor in exuberance almost a year ago.
“What are you studying?”
Eleanor focused on his eyes. “The memory of you, I suppose.”
“I am still before you,” Basaal said, sounding almost irritated.
“Yes,” Eleanor said, looking back towards the city. “You are.”
“Once they call me in to the council,” Basaal said, raising a hand to his face, rubbing his eyes before dropping his hand, “you must make your way quickly through the tunnel. Dantib will be waiting for you at the far end with supplies for your journey, including the dye. You must dye your hair as soon as you are out of the city,” he reminded. “That red hair will be the death of you if you don’t.” Basaal sighed and then spoke again, almost as an afterthought. “The Vestan will not stop searching for you,” he said, “so you must never stay anywhere for long or draw attention to your travels.”
His eyes paused on the gown Eleanor was wearing. It was an ornate ceremonial gown, covered in jewelry and a sash of bright green over blue and gold. The guards must see her prepared for the evening ceremony when Basaal left; one less detail to declare him part of her escape.
“How long do we have to wait now?” Eleanor asked.
“Maybe an hour, probably less.” Basaal played with the calluses on his hand, but his face was not relaxed. “You should rest while you have the chance, for you will be running many hours before you dare stop.”
“Sitting quietly is what I need.”
Basaal considered what she had said. Then he moved gracefully from across the large windowsill to sit beside her, close to the edge of the steep wall, which dropped down into a sequence of small, empty gardens. He leaned his arm into hers, and Eleanor felt as if she could sense the unspoken thoughts circling endlessly in his head.
“I never thought I would say this,” Eleanor said as she gazed almost wistfully over the city, a humorous smile crossing her face for the first time since the missive had arrived the night before, “but you have been a wonderful first husband.”
Basaal elbowed Eleanor softly, but then he lifted her hand in his and kissed it, holding it to his lips for a moment.
“What will happen to you,” she asked, “when they see that I am gone? If your father finds proof that you were involved…” she whispered, the words, and they were difficult crossing her tongue.
“He won’t.”
“Just give me the likely scenario, Basaal.”
Basaal shrugged. “The likely scenario? If my involvement was proven beyond a doubt, I would be tried as a traitor to the empire and be put to death.” Seeing her expression, he laughed, but it was bitter, filled with vinegar. “I will be fine,” he insisted. “Navigating this world is what I have always done.”
He turned his face towards hers, leaning his temple against the marble wall. “The scenario that I hope for is this: you and Dantib make it safely out of the city—bless the seven stars that you do,” he added quietly. “I will be outraged and insulted, along with my father. We will try to hunt you down, sending the Vestan in several directions. My father will watch my suggestions like a snake, so I must play off of his cues.” The calm exterior of his voice was now laced with distaste. “I will then have to plan the march into Aemogen.”
“And what will happen when I have returned to Aemogen, after the Imirillian army has broken through the pass?” she asked, posing the question to herself as much as to Basaal.
“I can’t see that far ahead, Eleanor.”
A knock sounded at the door. Eleanor sat up straight and Basaal dropped his head and muttered something in Imirillian. He moved around her, dropping to the floor, and answered the door, pulling it open wide enough that the guard could see Eleanor, sitting in the window behind him. After a brief exchange, Basaal closed the door again.
“They’re almost ready for me.”
Eleanor did not answer; neither did she look at his face as she slid from the window to the floor and walked across to the bedchamber.
“We only have a few moments,” Basaal said as he followed her inside, locking the doors behind him. Then Eleanor began removing the jewelry on her arms and wrists, placing it on the bed. Basaal stripped off his shirt, slipping on a clean one, covering it with his black jacket. Then Basal pulled on his boots, washed his face, and subdued his hair with his fingers. He opened the locked trunk on the far wall with a small key he wore about his neck. Rummaging around, Basaal pulled out a plain brown dress, a headscarf, gloves, and shoes.
“These would be worn by a herdsman’s daughter,” he explained. “The gloves and shoes will cover your afta dar for the next few days. But wash it off as soon as you are able.” Basaal handed the clothing to Eleanor. “It will be plain, so nobody should notice you if you keep the headscarf pulled forward and—”
“And change my hair color,” Eleanor interrupted, taking the garments from him. She waited until Basaal had turned towards the window, fidgeting with the sleeves of his jacket, before shedding the colorful, silk garments for the rough brown weave of the long robe. As she did so, she could feel herself turning back towards her role and her duty; she was the Queen of Aemogen, and it was time to return home. The regret she felt for Basaal was steeled against, pushed aside. It had to be.
Her pouch—leather and nondescript—had been readied earlier, and, after Eleanor finished changing her wardrobe, Basaal pulled it out from behind the bed.
“You will have everything you need once you meet up with Dantib. But here are some coins and a little food if, for some reason, you two are separated.” Basaal handed the bag to her, and Eleanor slung it over her shoulder. “I also made sure to place the seeds that I gave you in the satchel.” He looked towards the bed, where Eleanor had discarded the wedding finery. Reaching down, he picked up the unassuming gold bracelet he had given her.
“Take this,” he said.
“But I can’t,” Eleanor replied. “Were I to be discovered with it, I would be suspected a thief.”
He looked at the simple line of gold draped across his hand then closed his fingers around it.
“Very well,” he said. “Will you help me move the table?”
Basaal’s palace had several secret passages and hallways, the most discreet and unknown lay below a stone in the bedchamber, always covered by a rug and his ornate writing table. He had told Eleanor of these passages, and shown her the only key that could open it, the day before.
Just as they were moving the table, another knock sounded at the door.
Basaal called to the guard that he was coming. Then, quickly and quietly, he rolled back the carpet and placed the key through a cut hole. Eleanor heard a click, and the stone shifted, lifted by a small spring beneath it, allowing Basaal to lift it up and open the wooden door below. His hands worked carefully, his eyes watching the door.
“I can’t give you a light,” he whispered. “But trust me, just follow the wall wi
th your left hand. It will lead you to Dantib within a few minutes’ time.”
Eleanor knelt down opposite Basaal, staring into the dark hole between them.
“I will ask a blessing on your safe journey every day,” Basaal promised, his expression more earnest than she had ever seen before. Then he stood before she could respond. “Give me your arms,” he directed.
Basaal clasped his hands around Eleanor’s wrists. Words, things she could say, did not come. Instead, she leaned forward, feeling him catch her weight as she hung free. Basaal’s final look was one of decided determination.
Then he let go.
Eleanor fell into darkness.
Preview of Book Three of Imirillia
The Wanderer’s Mark
In loss the Illuminating God declares a journey. His mortals release their loves, just as the desert is stripped of its beauty, and they, His children, are hollowed and hallowed. For loss is His sanctifier.
—The First Scroll
Chapter One
Eleanor hit the earth with a jolt and fell against the wall, her cheek striking the stone. The square of light which led to Basaal and his life disappeared as Basaal put the stone back into place. Eleanor was left in complete darkness. She reached out and touched the stone wall. It was slippery, and damp.
Basaal had told her to follow the wall with her left hand. What if she had been turned around in the fall and went the opposite direction? Her instincts told her to go left, so she placed her hand on the wall and began to move, pushing away any thoughts of what could be occupying the darkness. Several minutes passed, then Eleanor came around a corner, where she could see a soft glow in the distance. Dantib.
Eleanor moved down the tunnel. When she reached the corner, she looked around it carefully. Dantib was there, hunched against the stone, waiting.
“Eleanor?” he said as he saw her. Her name sounded strange in his heavy accent.
“Yes,” she said as she stepped out before the stable master.
