The Wanderer's Mark: Book Three of Imirillia (The Books of Imirillia 3)

by Beth Brower

  When Sharin had fallen asleep, Eleanor wrapped Zanntal’s cloak around the small girl. Then she left the tent, joining Zanntal near the fire. He sat crouched, mixing several spices and powders together that he had retrieved earlier from his knapsack. He looked up briefly at Eleanor before returning his attention to the fire. His scimitar hung about his waist, and Zanntal was ever watching, and listening to the noises around them.

  Eleanor sat down, pulling her knee up under her chin, feeling the stiff pull of the scars forming on her back. “Will you tell me now how you came to find us?” she asked.

  Zanntal did not answer immediately. He pulled a small kettle, filled with steaming water, away from the fire. Moving his hands in deliberate motions, Zanntal put his spice and powder mixture into the water, stirring it with a small spoon. He tasted it and appeared satisfied, for he poured a cup for himself and one for Eleanor. She took his offering gratefully, testing the tea against her lips before deciding to let it cool.

  “The slavers who took your horses,” he answered, “made the mistake of trying to sell Hegleh to the emperor’s column.”

  “The emperor’s column?” Eleanor frowned. “Does Emperor Shaamil ride with Basaal?”

  “Yes,” Zanntal said candidly. “After your disappearance, the emperor mobilized six thousand of his own men to join with Basaal’s seven thousand waiting in Marion. After I intercepted the slavers,” Zanntal explained, returning to his narrative of Eleanor’s discovery, “the prince—” Zanntal paused. “He pressed them for information about where you were being taken, then sent me to find you straightaway.”

  “Is he well?” Eleanor stared into the small cup in her hands before looking up at the man.

  “He was very angry when I last saw him. I do not now know how he fares now, but I believe they must have passed through the Aronee and into Marion by this time.”

  “And you were sent to what end?” Eleanor ran her tongue over the forming scar on her bottom lip.

  “To see you to Aemogen,” Zanntal replied.

  She swallowed, her eyes heavy, and looked down at the sores on her wrist. “Did the prince have anything else to say, aside from charging you see me to Aemogen?” she asked after several silent moments.

  With a slight sound, Zanntal cleared his throat and nodded. “He wanted me to ascertain if you had been harmed in any way.”

  Eleanor set her cup near the fire and stretched her fingers towards her sore back, pulling her arms closer. It could have been worse, much worse. She heard Sharin stir inside the tent and breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Nothing that cannot heal,” Eleanor said, trying not to falter.

  They spoke no more that evening. Eventually, Zanntal put the fire out and stood watch, his scimitar drawn. Eleanor retired to the tent, placing her arms around Sharin, and slept soundly. She dreamed that she was almost home, and hope was no longer an impossible shadow.

  ***

  When Basaal slept that night he saw the fall of the Imirillian Empire. The tall turrets of Zarbadast began to crumble into themselves, as if smoke had come from stone. The ornate craft of centuries past, adorning the tall towers and arches, disappeared into the white cloud of the seven palaces’ destruction. He heard thunder, born of marble and brass slowly crashing, turning weightless as it tumbled upon all that lay below, turning the city to chalk and ash. A purple haze loomed ominously over Zarbadast, and the dying yellow sun, low and tired, still touched the walls of the remaining buildings, the sanctuaries, the monuments, until they were overcome in the spreading cloud that came down from the fallen palaces.

  The city responded with the deep, penetrating rumble as sand-colored facades descended into dust. There were no people, Zarbadast was empty. Yet, the memory of every soul who had ever graced the desert streets now cried in a pitiful wail as all was covered in the dust of the decimated relics that were once Imirillia.

  When all had fallen, a great silence hung over the desert city until night alighted itself on the barren ruins, calling forth a holy wind. It was not gentle but mighty and full. It did not gust and sway but moved as one continuous stream, a show of awesome force and power. The wind continued all night long. The moon did not show her face, and all was darkness and sound and terror.

  Finally, come morning, when the sun again lifted itself above the desert sands, all was as if man had never been—all was forgotten.

  Basaal opened his eyes.

  ***

  “We have come far south,” Zanntal explained as he drew a map for Eleanor in the sand. “As I see it, the fastest way to your country is by passing through the edge of Aramesh and then dropping into Partolla, then crossing the Arimel Mountains to the north of Aemogen.”

  Sharin was playing in the dirt around their feet, remaining close to Eleanor, still not trusting Zanntal. “The mountains cannot be crossed,” Eleanor said as she rested her hand on the girls shoulder and shook her head. “Especially in spring, when the glaciers would be impenetrable. That is why,” she added, “except for the pass and the port, Aemogen is so secure.”

  Zanntal considered her words as he stared at his makeshift map. “The emperor’s army has assuredly by now, crossed into Marion.” He traced the path of the army. “We can reach the Arimel Mountains in five or six days’ time,” he said, looking back up at Eleanor. “Yes,” Zanntal insisted upon seeing her astonishment. “That is how far south the slavers brought you. Now, I lived in the northwest mountains as a boy, in the peaks above the Deeatnaah monastery,” he explained. “Our livelihood came from our skill of negotiating this difficult terrain. There are some towns in Partolla, near Aramesh, where we can find supplies and ropes.” He moved his fingers in the sand and looked calmly at Eleanor. “Prince Basaal once spoke of your unwarranted trust in me. If this is indeed the case, then trust me to help you across those mountains. We can drop into your country without negotiating the armies at the pass,” he assured her. “Seven to ten days after we reach the mountains, and no more.”

  “Basaal spoke to you about my trusting you?” Eleanor asked openly.

  “Yes.” Zanntal nodded. “When he asked me to play a part in your escape from the palace.”

  “And why did you agree to help?” she asked.

  Zanntal did not look away, and Eleanor could not mistake his sincerity. “Because when I saw you in Zarbadast, I felt I had known you all my days.”

  Eleanor smiled. “Yes.”

  “I will see you to your country,” Zanntal insisted. “By whatever power that determined we should meet, I will see you across those mountains.”

  Eleanor pointed her finger at the map. “Are you telling me that I can be home in fewer than twenty days?”

  “Yes,” Zanntal said firmly.

  Eleanor clucked in reply and grinned.

  ***

  Two more days south, and they left the Shera Shee behind. Eleanor could not help smiling as the majestic, blue Arimel Mountains rose in the distance. For the first time in weeks and weeks, the ground felt real. Zanntal had produced Eleanor’s herdsman boots, Dantib’s tunic, and her leather satchel, which still held the seeds Basaal had gifted her. She threw the satchel over her shoulder and thanked the Illuminating God for it.

  Dantib’s tunic was repurposed for Sharin’s needs, and Eleanor took Zanntal’s headscarf to cover her own hair: by now, a motley brown with two inches of copper at the scalp. Her face felt raw—sunburned and windburned.

  “I’m quite certain I look ridiculous,” Eleanor said as she was securing the tunic around Sharin’s waist with a rope. “My friends will hardly recognize me.”

  The soldier said nothing.

  Zanntal had taken to the little girl, and he was quick to help Eleanor in her care. Sharin gave him smiles as she clung to Eleanor’s skirts, shyly eating the food Zanntal gave her with deliberate determination. Eleanor asked her questions about her family, but Sharin just stared, neither nodding nor shaking her head.

  As they traveled, Eleanor began to talk to Sharin about Aemogen, of spring
and summer, the harvests and the flowers. She described the sea and the green. And, although the girl did not understand what all of Eleanor’s words meant, Zanntal, she noticed, would listen intently. Sometimes he asked questions. As the Arimel Mountains grew before them, they spoke of their childhoods, experiences, the political challenges facing Aemogen, and the cultural challenges facing Zanntal’s kin, whom he had left several years ago.

  When they reached the Partolla towns, the people there took them for what they presented themselves to be: a family traveling south. Eleanor’s physical appearance was not such an anomaly here in the South, and Sharin clung to her so tightly that no one questioned their story.

  Zanntal had money enough for food and a little clothing, and, in each town, he would casually accumulate more rope. Soon, Dantib’s gray mare became their stock horse. He bore the supplies patiently, paying little attention beyond trudging along their path and seeing to his own personal needs.

  Zanntal scanned the snow-glossed peaks ahead of them. “This is not beyond what I have seen in the mountains of the high north,” he said. “Granted, they were never this tall,” he added, his face creased. But, it was with confidence that he scanned the crevices and crags. “What is the Aemogen word for mountain?” he asked.

  Eleanor told him. “Why do you ask?”

  “If I am to spend any time in your country, I will need to know the language,” he explained, “unless you plan on sending me back to Imirillia.”

  “Of course not.” Eleanor smiled, and then her face fell. “You are not—how is it said—sworn until death to Prince Basaal?”

  Zanntal shook his head. “I swore to Emaad, and he is dead. My allegiance is now my own to give for how long I wish it. Prince Basaal understands this.”

  They took to the foothills. Nights were cold, now that they had traveled so far south. And, when they woke in the morning there was frost on their blankets. The horses did well on the first few days of travel, up through the rising foothills. But, on the third, they began to encounter passes that would require their small company to climb with their supplies tied to their backs.

  “We are going to have to go on without the horses,” Zanntal told Eleanor early that afternoon.

  “I know,” she admitted, trying to give Sharin comfort, for the girl had been crying off and on since morning. Eleanor’s hands were shaking, and she felt light-headed. But the mountains smelled like home, and Eleanor was determined to see Aemogen before many more days passed.

  Hegleh had patiently climbed the uneven hills, nickering only in light complaint. Now, as Eleanor and Zanntal secured their supplies to their backs with ropes, it was time for her to say good-bye to Basaal’s horse. Eleanor moved her hands along Hegleh’s neck, whispering her thanks to the beautiful beast, removing the bridle, and then kissing her between the eyes.

  Dantib’s gray horse, who had held no great affection for anyone save his master, was already wandering down the slope, following the lines of bright, spring grass. But Hegleh paid the gray horse no mind, following Eleanor, Sharin, and Zanntal instead as they continued up through the ravine.

  “Go,” Eleanor said, and she waved the horse away as it struggled up an outcropping of stone. “Go away. You can’t follow us here.” Hegleh whinnied and blew out her nostrils, upset that Eleanor did not wait for her. Sharin began fussing again, and Eleanor held the girl’s hand as they continued to climb.

  When they reached a crag where Hegleh could not follow, it tore at Eleanor’s heart. But, mouth pressed into a line as she fought her tears, she continued. Hegleh’s whinnying could be heard long after they had lost sight of the mare.

  ***

  While Emperor Shaamil and Ammar ate, Basaal stood, studying the map of Aemogen carefully. Ranjen, one of Basaal’s officers who’d remained at the Marion encampment, now sent reports daily: Basaal’s troops were pressing their way up the pass with little to moderate progress as they cleared away stone and rubble. The Aemogen archers kept them at bay, and it was slow work.

  Running his fingers over the map, Basaal tapped a finger on Ainsley. He’d had no word from Zanntal in well over a month and had no way of knowing if the soldier had even found Eleanor and Dantib, let alone helped them back to Aemogen. Basaal leaned against the table. This whole business with Aemogen had long since gone sour, and Basaal worried he would not manage to do what the Illuminating God had asked of him. It was going to take all his courage to even try.

  “When the road passes near Marion City,” Shaamil said, his words interrupting Basaal’s thoughts, “we will stay as guests of King Staven’s hospitality for several days. The army can continue towards the encampment.”

  “Now there’s sense,” Ammar said more to himself than to his father.

  Basaal looked up at his father, displeasure evident on his face and he sighed audibly. Ignoring the black look he received from Shaamil, Basaal left the map table and paced along the luxurious carpets, now far more dusty than they had been months ago.

  “What is it you object to?” Shaamil asked as he continued to eat his dinner, giving sharp, sidelong glances as he chewed deliberately.

  “Nothing,” Basaal answered as he ran his fingers through his hair. If anything, he should be grateful for these few extra days before having to make a decision. “I care as much for my uncle as I care for—” Basaal waved at the air. “I can’t actually think of anyone that I like so little as him.”

  Ammar laughed, but the emperor swallowed and took a drink before delivering the acerbic words, “Not even me?”

  Chapter Five

  There were times when Eleanor knew her confidence in Zanntal’s plan was fixed. After working their way up and over a difficult pass or at the end of a long day of struggle and ropes and cold, she would look back at their progress and feel sure. But, there were other days that made it hard for her to keep any hope.

  Eleanor yelled as she slipped, burning her hand as she tried to grab her rope. The rope left several agonizing slivers in her already swollen and blistered fingers. She yelled again as she waved her fingers in the cold air before thrusting them into a patch of iced over snow. This particular moment was one of many that had convinced her their small group was mad and would end up dead before they ever found their way through one of the treacherous gaps and down into Aemogen.

  “Are you alright?” Zanntal called back to her. Sharin was strapped to his back, and her face had crinkled in pain when he yelled. The infection in Sharin’s mouth seemed better, but a fever had set in, and Eleanor had stayed awake most of the night, trying to comfort the shivering girl.

  The routine Eleanor had adopted since they began their ascent was feeling immense guilt for not having left Sharin with some family along the borders of Partolla, followed by a counter argument that they could not trust Sharin’s fate if she had just been left in a village alone. Eleanor could ensure a good future for Sharin in Aemogen if—she added with mounting stress—they could find a way to survive the Imirillian invasion.

  Eleanor slipped again, and this time, she could not stand the pain of the rope and let go, falling to a ledge, banging her knee against an outcropping of rock. Zanntal said something, but Eleanor lifted her hand and stared at the shredded flesh. There was blood on her fingers.

  “Eleanor, are you alright?” Zanntal repeated from above.

  “No!” Eleanor said, feeling the word fly out of her mouth to match her frustrations.

  “You’re exhausted, I know,” Zanntal said as he looked down over the edge, watching her struggle. “Have you injured your knee?”

  “It smashed against the rock,” Eleanor said with a cringe.

  “Should we stop?”

  “We can’t afford to stop while there is still daylight,” Eleanor said, gritting her teeth as she stood, wiping a drip of blood from her cheek with her tattered sleeve.

  On they went, the sun disappearing behind the peaks to the west. It grew cold. Sharin seemed worse now, yet Eleanor could do nothing for her until they stopped for the
night. It took a long time to maneuver the crevices before them, and Eleanor’s fingers were still struggling to grip the ropes.

  When the terrain grew even more challenging, Zanntal tied Sharin to Eleanor’s back while he slowly negotiated the climbs, securing what ropes he could to pull Eleanor and Sharin up to safety. When it was finally time to stop, to sleep, and to rest, Eleanor held Sharin in her arms. She tried to tempt her with whatever small amount of water and bread she could, for the girl refused but very little.

  “Do you think she will die on this mountain?” Eleanor asked Zanntal as she moved her thumb over Sharin’s cheek, lulling the girl to sleep.

  “No,” Zanntal said, and he was confident. “Tomorrow, or the next day, I am hopeful we will find our way through to the south side. We will go down into your country before many more days.”

  Despite the cold air against her face and arms and the almost unbearable burning of her hands, Eleanor smiled and kissed Sharin’s now sleeping face.

  “You cannot know what this means to me, returning to Aemogen,” Eleanor said.

  Zanntal’s expression seemed serious, but his eyes were certain. “You can thank me after I start a small fire and make an herb poultice for your hands,” he said. “We are fortunate to still have enough supplies to not make us desperate.”

  ***

  Eleanor had secured the bundle to her back, and asked Zanntal to tighten the knots, as her hands were too stiff to be effective. The soldier said he would. But, in the course of preparing to leave their makeshift camp, he had forgotten. So had Eleanor. Only later that morning, when Eleanor was facing the task of pulling herself up ten feet of a steep cliff, did she remember it had not been secured as tightly as Zanntal had always insisted.

  “I can’t help you with it now,” he called down. “Climb up, and we’ll secure it.”

  “My arms!” Eleanor called back up. “They’re too tired. Can I tie myself to your rope?”