by Beth Brower
“What is he like?” Edythe asked as she set aside her mug and moved closer to Eleanor. “Wil, as Prince Basaal, I mean.”
Pausing, Eleanor leaned her head farther back into her pillow. “He has made more of his character than I would have thought possible of anyone in his place. I respect him immensely.”
Edythe frowned as if catching a hint in Eleanor’s face. “What happened between you?”
“He did not order the raid on Common Field,” Eleanor said, forcing the words she had wanted to tell Edythe into the open. “I know you do not want to hear this, but I think you should be aware that the attack was carried out without his orders, and he was furious. His aim in spending time in Aemogen was to negotiate a peaceful surrender so that no lives would be lost. He still carries Blaike’s death on his shoulders.”
The blood drained from Edythe’s face, and she began to absently pick at Eleanor’s coverlet, remaining silent while Eleanor watched her movements.
“Do you still mourn Blaike?” Eleanor felt out the words, trying to find a way to discuss his death.
“It has not yet been a year, Eleanor.”
“No,” Eleanor agreed. “Almost, but not quite.”
“There has not been time for grief,” Edythe said quietly. “But, I do not really wish to discuss it, if you can understand.”
“I do,” Eleanor confirmed in an instant, “better than you suppose.”
Edythe looked to Eleanor’s face. “And what about the mark on your left arm?” she asked.
Eleanor had no answer. There were stories she was not ready to tell.
***
Crispin arrived late the next morning.
Eleanor had left Edythe to care for the morning audience, as Eleanor sat at her desk, reading several months’ of back reports. When she received news of Crispin’s arrival, Eleanor directed he should come straight to her private audience chamber. As the door opened and Hastian showed Crispin in, Eleanor almost laughed, moving to greet him. He surprised her by dropping to his knees and bowing his head.
“My Queen.”
“Get up, and greet me properly,” Eleanor exclaimed with a laugh. He stood as he was told, but his air remained stiff and formal, a subject to his queen. As they studied one another, Eleanor realized the quick smile and boyishness she’d once known in him was now gone, replaced by the heavy new responsibility she could not help but notice weighing down his shoulders. She also noticed that he wore the insignia Gaulter Alden had always worn.
She wondered what he saw in return. Crispin looked as if he would speak but was waiting for her to address him first.
“You have done well,” Eleanor complimented him, motioning towards the stacks of hastily written reports on her desk. “I’ve spent the morning reviewing your reports from the pass. And I am favorably impressed by your leadership and command there.”
“Had I not received the encouragement of the council and of Edythe,” he explained, “you must believe I would have never assumed this position for myself. Please consider the other worthy men for this post,” he added, “which was never mine to take.”
The impatient smile that flickered across Eleanor’s face felt like a stolen expression of Basaal’s. “On old Ainsley, Crispin, you know very well you’re the man for the job,” she said. “And I couldn’t be more pleased. I ask, as your sovereign and your friend, that you remain at your post.”
Crispin bowed his head, relieved. “As it pleases you, Eleanor.”
Baffled by such a foreign formality in Crispin, Eleanor now soaked in the sound of him speaking her own name. She threw her arms around him and kissed him on the cheek, and he responded like his old self, lifting her to her toes and saying something about needing to feed her more.
Before she dismissed Crispin to wash and change, Eleanor said, “The war council and the fen lords will meet as soon as you are ready. I understand you and Thistle Black have come onto an idea that will benefit us in this fight. I ask that you come prepared to share with me the particulars.”
“I will,” Crispin said as he bowed. Then Hastian opened the door, and the young war leader passed into the corridor.
“Hastian, how long has Crispin been like this?”
“Your Majesty?” Hastian asked. The Queen’s Own furrowed his brow in an exaggerated manner.
“His mood, his bearing,” Eleanor said, motioning her hand towards the door Crispin had just exited through. “This new seriousness.”
Hastian cleared his throat. “It’s hard to say.”
***
It took time for Eleanor to gather the courage to walk into the library, where her council and all the fen lords were waiting. She was just so.… Well, Eleanor admitted to herself, she didn’t know what. But she felt broken into too many pieces and worn thin and uncertain of how to pick her life back up again. After claiming as much self-decided hope as she was able, she entered the room.
Edythe had joined them, her chair at the opposite end of the table from Eleanor’s. As Eleanor sat, the rest of the council followed suit. Then she said the first thing that came to mind: “I hope that, this time, someone bothered to search the library.”
Aedon and Sean smiled. The fen lords not privy to the joke looked at each other in confusion. Then Crispin stood, his face flushed as he pushed back his chair and walked past Eleanor to search the rows and rows of books.
“We are quite alone, Your Majesty,” he said as he bowed upon his return before sitting down in his chair.
“Then, let us begin,” Eleanor said as she looked around the table, making eye contact with Thistle Black, who sat at the far end near Edythe. Having not noticed the querulous fen lord before then, Eleanor gave him a private smile, which he returned.
“I’m—it’s good to be here, in Aemogen, with all of you. My memories of you kept me filled with courage. Now,” she said as she cleared her throat and looked at the table, “to business. I’m sure you have all heard by now that Emperor Shaamil has decided to accompany Prince Basaal to ensure the success of this conquest. He brings with him only a fraction of his army: six thousand men. Added with the army of Prince Basaal, we now face thirteen thousand.
“Now, I also understand,” she continued, “that Crispin and Thistle Black, of the South Mountain fen, have been working on a stratagem involving a new weapon of sorts. Although many of you might already be familiar with the idea, I would like a full report. Crispin?”
Eleanor felt a simultaneous twinge of sadness and pride as Crispin stood, looking older and strained, shuffling the few papers in his hand before looking up.
“After Your Majesty stalled the army at the pass,” he began, “Thistle Black and I were investigating the damage done by the lines of powder. The damage was—as you will come to see—immense. So, we began to wonder if the powder could be manipulated in any other ways to aid in our defense,” Crispin said and, to Eleanor’s relief, looked up and grinned quite like his old self. “Don’t believe Thistle Black when he says this was his idea. I thought of it first.”
Thistle Black harrumphed in response.
“I wondered what would happen,” Crispin continued, “if the powder were to be placed inside a restricted environment: a metal sphere that one could hold in a hand or a box full of Bryant’s blacksmithing scraps. With much care, we began to experiment along the eastern coast.”
“And?” Eleanor asked as she raised her eyebrow.
“Devastating,” Crispin replied, his grin turning into a steely smile. “Though, you’ll probably not forgive me for some of the damage the eastern coast has sustained,” he admitted. “The smithies throughout Aemogen have begun the construction of two or three types of this powder weaponry, mainly hollowed spheres that can be filled with powder and lit by a long fuse at a great distance. In the mean time, Lord Thayne has been spending time in Marion, recruiting a small company of mercenaries sympathetic to our cause. We consulted the treasury before offering a price if they agree to help us with our endeavor.”
“And what
do you plan to do with these powder devices?” Eleanor asked.
“The only thing I believe we can do,” Crispin replied, looking around the table before looking back at Eleanor and lifting his chin. “We plan to attack the Imirillian encampment.”
Eleanor stood over the map of the Imirillian camp, watching with interest while Crispin laid out his plan before her. The war council also listened without interrupting.
“The Marion Company will—at an appointed time—set the devices here, here, and here,” Crispin explained, pointing to each location on the map. “One of them is also a food supplier, bringing in barrels of who knows what almost on a daily basis. We will make quick use of that. Our own team will be prepared to set up a line here,” Crispin said, his fingers moving across the map. “And here. And there among the horses, which is where we hope to strike first. Our men will come through the tunnel to Colun Tir then fan out into the woods to form a solid line. They will later leave the trees under cover of darkness and wait for the explosions to pass before bearing down for the attack. We’ve already practiced wrapping the reins and such in woolen cloth to mute the noise of the cavalry waiting in the darkness.”
“And what if some of the devices go off late?” Eleanor tapped her finger against the map.
“A circumstance we hope to avoid, a chance we take.”
“I know from the mining reports that handling powder in any form can be quite dangerous,” Eleanor challenged. “Are you certain we can put all of our devices in place without putting the soldiers, the tunnel, or the absolutely necessary element of surprise at risk?”
“Thistle Black and I have some ideas that I have prepared here,” Crispin said as he held up a stack of worn papers. “And we will only use teams of experienced miners to set the lines on the night of the invasion.”
“Which is?” Eleanor asked.
“Our original plan,” Crispin told Eleanor, “was to attack twenty-seven days from now, in the middle of the night. It is the next new moon,” he explained. “The valley would be in impenetrable darkness.”
“No moon means that Seraagh is on some mission,” Eleanor said then drew a long breath. “That sounds appropriate.” Aedon looked curious about her comment, but Eleanor pressed on. “Let’s start at the beginning of your plan and walk through each move, in detail, to see if this is even a possibility.”
The council met through the rest of the day, working out questions, scenarios, and timing. Placing stones on the map, representing divisions of the Aemogen army, they discussed how best to use their small force. Crispin told Eleanor of the number of powder weapons they had built.
“We are working on a handheld variety,” he explained. “But, as you can imagine, it’s proven quite dangerous.” Pausing, his face turned sober. “We’ve lost two men over its invention.”
“The original plan was brilliant—when we were only going against seven thousand,” Eleanor said at length. “Against thirteen, we will have to build in more assurances.” She ran her eyes across the scenario they’d envisioned on the map. “If we can,” she added.
“Surprise and disruption,” Thistle Black said, repeating the opinion he had been sharing all afternoon. “Our success will entirely depend on that. If an army of thirteen thousand breaks through the pass, we’ve no hope. Either we do this or we die trying.”
“Aedon has told me about your training rotations,” Eleanor said, looking towards the bank of windows. Daylight was disappearing fast. “Let us bring all the men into full training at Ainsley. The southern troops must be called up now if we are to be ready in twenty-seven days.”
“But, what of the crops?” Aedon asked. “It’s just as urgent this year as it was last year to put seeds in the ground on time.”
“The situation has changed,” Eleanor stated. “Women and children must finish the work.”
“Can they plant enough food to sustain us through this coming year? With all the struggles the inevitable drought will bring—”
“They must,” Eleanor said, cutting Aedon short. “If we want to preserve Aemogen, it is time for all of us to do more than is possible. The seed bringers and their assistants must take responsibility for aiding the women and children to plant the fields.”
Aedon’s mouth worked silently, but his face looked resigned, and he nodded. “You are right,” he said. “I only wish that you weren’t.”
“We’ve heard some of the miners saying they won’t close down their mines to come,” Thistle Black growled. “Not many, but a few up and down the line.”
Eleanor looked at Thistle Black without blinking. “I will send a fen rider with a message to all mining fens that the mines will be shut down—effective immediately—save the closest mines which may provide raw materials to our blacksmiths. If the other mines fail to follow suit, I will charge whatever man that refuses with high treason, and he will hang from west tower.”
Eleanor knew the men were taken aback with her abruptness.
“Is there anything else that we have left undone for this afternoon?” she asked. Eleanor looked at each man on the council. They avoided her eyes but did not move. “What is it?”
Crispin looked at Aedon then back at Eleanor before he spoke. “We all want to know what happened to you, Eleanor.”
Silence filled the room.
Eleanor looked at the men before her, friends, councillors, pillars that had held her up through the first years of her reign. Her eyes met Edythe’s. Considering what she should tell them, Eleanor lifted her hand to the back of her neck, moving her fingers over the scars there. She breathed out and leaned back.
“Alright,” she said.
Eleanor began her tale. She told them of waiting for Basaal, having him hand her Aedon’s note, and starting their journey to Marion City. “I could not accept Staven’s offer,” Eleanor said and then paused. “Every instinct in me felt it to be a false direction for the people of Aemogen.”
Then she spoke of their journey north, describing the stone sea, the Aronee desert, the long nights in the desert, and Annan’s kindnesses to her.
“Despite the fever I will never forget my first view of Zarbadast.” Eleanor paused, remembering the vision of its pulsing, burning coals, spread across the golden sands and of Basaal helping her to stand, placing his arm about her waist.
Next, she spoke of the people, the city, and the seven palaces of Zarbadast. Eleanor told them of the emperor’s challenge in great detail. Both Crispin and Aedon listened more intently as she described Basaal’s fight and her mind games with Emperor Shaamil.
Eleanor pressed on to her escape, describing Dantib and their trek through the desert. The men’s faces were attentive as Eleanor spoke of being captured by the Shera Shee slavers, enduring Dantib’s death, finding Sharin, and suffering injuries from the chains and the whips.
Eleanor spoke of Zanntal with great warmth, explaining how Basaal had sent him, and describing how Zanntal had paid off the slavers and helped her and Sharin through the desert then over the Arimel Mountains.
It was dark when Eleanor finished. Every detail shared. Every moment recorded except two, the morning that Eleanor sealed Prince Basaal’s Safeeraah and the fact that the wedding did happen before Eleanor’s escape. Of these she said not a word.
Sean was the first to speak. “It sounds like Wil, Prince Basaal, I mean, acted honorably.”
“Honorable?” Crispin said, choking on the word. “He’s the enemy who seeks our destruction. He’s our foe and the reason Eleanor has experienced such an ordeal. There are no thanks or praise owed in his direction. Did he aid our queen? Yes. But his campaign still continues on the other side of those mountains,” Crispin said as he pointed towards the western windows. “His army still waits to subjugate our people and steal our sovereignty.”
Eleanor flushed. She had spoken little of Basaal, for she did not want to listen to the opinions of others about him. It was difficult enough to sort out her own knotted thoughts. Eleanor sat to one side of her chair and raised
her hand to her forehead.
“I think,” Aedon said slowly, “that Sean was addressing the basic idea that Prince Basaal not only did all he could to ensure Eleanor’s safety and protection but also refused to act in a way that would remove himself from the leadership of this conquest, thereby preventing his father or brothers from repeating what has happened too many times before to other countries.”
Aedon took a quick breath then continued. “He has sought to preserve Aemogen as best he could while honoring the obligations of his birth,” he argued. “He even spent six months trying to convince us to surrender so that it might be a bloodless conquest. And, when we would not listen,” Aedon added, “he trained our men to fight. He is not without honor—”
Crispin balked, but Aedon lifted his hand, his voice quavering in anger. “I do not excuse him for any wrongs and deceptions or for the pain—” Aedon said, the word flickering like a flame in his voice, “that the queen endured as a result of his treachery. I only say the man is not without honor.”
Aedon stood, as if he could not handle sitting any longer. No servants had yet entered to light the lanterns or candles, and his face was difficult to outline against the dark windows.
“There is nothing else for us to do this evening,” Eleanor said as she also stood, her fingers pressing softly against the mark in her skin, hidden beneath her sleeve.
***
“At least the view is tolerable,” Ammar said before he dropped the curtain of the tent back across the doorway and returned inside. Basaal followed, none too fondly, after receiving a faceful of tassels.
Shaamil sat in conversation with his Vestan, occasionally looking towards Basaal and Ammar, each having claimed an elegant couch. Ammar sat reading a scroll. But Basaal draped himself comfortably across the couch with one of his legs hanging over the armrest while the other tapped the beat to an Imirillian folk tune on the rug. Basaal hoped his nonchalance would cover the questions he was turning over in his mind. If he was not to lead his army into Aemogen then surely the Illuminating God must have some plan, an alternative that would present itself in Basaal’s thoughts.