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

by Beth Brower

  Basaal wrapped his fingers around the thick door and pushed it open just wide enough for him to slip into the darkness beyond. It was blacker than pitch inside. He slid himself over to the back of the open door, hiding in its shadow. The air inside the mountain passage had a thin smell, laced with minerals and time. Basaal could hear the sound of water dripping, echoing sharply in the distance.

  Blinking rapidly several times, he waited for his eyes to catch hold of anything. But the darkness would not give, and he dare not move forward without a light. A drop of sweat moved down Basaal’s face, and he cursed this slip of judgment. What was he doing here? It was time to return to the Imirillian camp.

  With a decided step, he moved back outside into the dim moonlight. It appeared almost bright after the deep black of the mountain passage. Basaal wanted to run, forcing himself to move through the woods as cautiously as he dared until he again approached the tower. Going around the back of the stables, he worked his way back down the mountain towards Refigh.

  After what felt like a long descent, Basaal paused to gather his breath and his thoughts, to stop the pounding in his heart, and to take stock of where he was. There, through the trees, he could see the road that would lead back down to his horse. Blowing his spent breath from his lungs, Basaal almost smiled.

  What a fool. What a lucky fool. He uttered a prayer of thanks and then stepped forward towards the road.

  Someone grabbed his arm and pulled him back, hard.

  With a trained response to his panic, Basaal brought his free elbow down on his assailant’s arm, and there was a crack and a pained grunt. He was free for only a moment before what felt like a thousand hands tore him from the moonlight and ripped him into the darkness of a nearby bramble. Basaal struggled against what felt like an entire company of soundless aggressors, blind in the darkness.

  After solidly connecting with the faces of three more men, Basaal was thrown onto his back, slamming his spine against a tree root. Then, in a rush of sound, he was pinned by half a dozen men. His hands were bound before him. Then someone else punched him hard once—then again.

  Basaal spit blood, swearing, and breathed out in the Aemogen language, “I’m bound, you idiot! I’ll not give you any more trouble.”

  After one more solid smack, a gag was forced over his mouth. It tasted like mildew, and he tried, fruitlessly, to spit it out. They pulled him away from the tree, someone holding a knife at his back as they stripped him of all his weapons. It was a thorough search: not a knife was left in place.

  Then he heard a hiss and saw a small flicker of light appear before his eyes. After spending half of his night in the dark woods, this single flame was painfully bright, and Basaal shut his eyes as they watered against its brilliance.

  “I don’t believe it,” a voice said.

  Then another man murmured something about a traitor.

  Basaal’s head hurt, and he scowled as he continued to blink the tears from his eyes. The effect, he was certain, made it seem as if he was crying. He tried to laugh and ended up choking on the dryness from the gag. He coughed. What a pathetic sight he must be.

  The flame went out.

  “What do we do with him?”

  “We take him back as a prisoner,” came the answer. “Quick. Let’s get away from here before any other damn Imirillians find their way up the mountain.”

  They forced him to stand, marching him back up to the tower more quietly than Basaal had been, as they were accustomed to the mountains. Basaal watched for any opportunity, any chance of escape, but he had half a dozen men around him, who did not leave him unattended for one moment from the time they captured him until the time when they brought him to the stone face of the mountain and forced him back through the open door in the crevice. Basaal stared at the deep blackness, listening to the sounds of those familiar with the space moving through it. Then the door was locked, and he was forced to the ground against the wall.

  “You move, and you die,” came a warning from a voice that sounded familiar.

  The quick rush of a flame filled the air as a torch light flared into being. Basaal lifted his bound hands to cover his eyes, and, when they had adjusted, he looked around him. He was in a carved mountain room, leading off into the darkness in two directions, and half a dozen soldiers stared at him in shock.

  A man that Basaal recognized from the castle guard stepped forward just as a sound came from outside the door—a whistle then a sequence of knocks. The torch was extinguished, and no one moved. After a bottomless minute, the same sequence was repeated with a slight variety.

  “It’s him,” someone said, and the locks were opened. As the soldiers pulled the door open, a shadow entered. They latched it shut immediately.

  The man muttered something—a password, perhaps—and the torch was again lit. Whispers rattled above Basaal’s head, he heard the name Wil being said. And, when he looked up, the shadow stood gawking at him.

  “On the grave of Ainorra Breagha, it is you,” the man said.

  These words came from a hunched over, grotesque looking man with teeth askew and a crooked nose: dirty and stringy, a vagabond seller of sorts. But his voice did not match his bent and filthy exterior. It carried the fine tenor of a well-bred gentleman.

  “You don’t recognize me, do you?” the man asked. “Well, turnabout is fair play, or so they say.”

  The man removed his teeth, and Basaal started as the grotesque figure began to melt away. He detached his nose and removed two large patches of sunburned skin from his face. Then the stranger grimaced as he stripped off the thick eyebrows from his own brow. Finally, he stripped his coat away, having been stuffed and filled. Free of this restrictive garment, the stranger stood up straighter. And, with the sweep of his hand, he stripped off his grimy wig to reveal beautiful hair of silver.

  The man breathed deeply. Thayne. It was Thayne of Allarstam, Telford’s younger brother and, therefore, Basaal’s own cousin. Thayne rubbed his hand across the stubble on his chin and turned to the soldier behind him.

  “Successful in every way, Ansell,” Thayne said to a soldier beside him. “I am supposed to report to Ainsley, and you well know I am eager to get back.” Thayne waved towards Basaal. “How did this come about?”

  Hushed and hurriedly, Ansell related how they’d taken the prince. To Basaal’s chagrin, they had been aware of him since he first approached the towers. Basaal leaned his head back against the stone and made the sound of a sigh. Thayne glanced at him sharply then back as the captain finished.

  “And what does he have to say for himself?” Thayne asked, looking at the gag in Basaal’s mouth.

  “It just all happened. We’ve had no time to do anything save let you into the tunnel.”

  “Yes, well.” Thayne folded his arms. “I am going to take him back into a storeroom while your men prepare us dinner. The prisoner eats too,” Thayne added, seeing the soldier’s expression. “Get to it. I’ll find out if he came alone.”

  Two soldiers lifted Basaal to his feet. He was pushed behind Thayne through the twists and turns of the cavern. Storerooms, indeed, they were, but Basaal could not see what was concealed in the packages and crates or what was piled in the corners. In a small room with a table, a handful of chairs, and a few candles, Thayne lifted a candle to the torch, and, after it lit, sent the guards on their way.

  “I shan’t need you,” he assured them as he lit several more candles, melted onto the table with their own wax. Then Thayne offered Basaal a seat, and he removed the gag. “I trust there will be no shouting and carrying on,” he asked as if he already knew the answer.

  “Thank you,” Basaal said as he wiped his face on his sleeve. Thayne did not unbind his hands. Sitting down across the table from Basaal, Thayne set his face in an amused frown.

  “And so, my ghost returns,” Thayne said. “Are you flesh and blood this time or merely an apparition?”

  Basaal knew Thayne expected no answer, and he gave none.

  “Telford was r
ight,” Thayne said. “I was a blind fool to have not known you as Edith’s son. A few times, the thought pressed on my mind, but I was in too much disbelief. How could it be? So, I gave up the thought. But, my, you carry her eyes and her face. Those cheekbones,” he added, “handsomest trait of the family, I’m afraid.”

  “How about if we skip the formalities and cut through the questioning as well?” Basaal said briskly, leaning back in his chair, staring at the dirty, but elegant figure of his older cousin. “I am alone. No one knows I am here. I’ve never revealed—neither to any member of my military staff nor to my family nor to any friend that I know—the existence of this passage or of the towers. And my horse is tethered farther down the abandoned road in the woods. Did I answer all of your questions?”

  “Not quite,” Thayne said as he folded his arms and looked with disapproval at Basaal. “I see you have no desire to discuss our common connection or your mother, so we will move on to far less agreeable topics.”

  Basaal raised his eyebrows to disagree with Thayne but then altered his face to an impassive expression.

  Thayne’s eyes narrowed, but it was in pain not anger. “Why am I to believe you?”

  “I’m not without honor,” Basaal said as he lifted his sleeve again to his face. His nose was running. The moment struck him as a odd, a bit funny. He fought back a desperate smile. Thayne’s eyes missed the smile, for he was surveying the Safeeraah along Basaal’s forearms.

  “Hotheaded, brash, self-serving,” Thayne said, ticking off a list of negative attributes. “All of these I grant your character readily. But foolishness? Carelessness? No. So, why are you here?”

  “I was curious,” Basaal said as he shifted.

  “Son, if we are going to be straight, let us be straight. Curiosity never bound an Imirillian royal to do anything without good purpose behind it. Why did you come up?”

  Basaal leaned his head back and lifted his bound hands to cover his eyes. Curiosity may not have ever bound an Imirillian royal but pride had. And his own pride was insisting he not reveal his heart to this man.

  The sound of footsteps came down the tunnel into the hewn-out room, and their food was delivered: dried apples and pears, dried meat, bread, and a little cheese. Thayne nodded to the soldier as he set the food before them. Basaal watched from behind his hands, searching desperately for any plan of escape that might come into his mind. Before the soldier could leave, Thayne made a motion and spoke. “Tell your captain that the prince has a horse in the woods, away down the tower road. Bring the beast back, and erase any trail that you can. We must act soon if the tower is to appear abandoned before daybreak. The trees must also be put back in place. We’ve four hours yet before morning.”

  “Yes, sir.” The soldier nodded. “We will see it all taken care of.”

  The trees need to be put back in place? Basaal wanted to ask about this odd allusion to camouflage, but he did not.

  “Let us not waste time,” Thayne said. He looked at his food but did not touch it. “What brought you on this fool’s errand?”

  “I swear,” Basaal shot back in frustration. “Is this a family trait?” Basaal lowered his hands from his face. “Between you and that brother of yours, I’ve been asked more stupid questions—” He trailed off, almost expecting Thayne to laugh, to respond with something clever, and to ask the question again, as Telford would have done. Instead, Thayne’s face froze, and he matched Basaal’s glare with one of his own.

  “Get on with the facts,” he warned, “if you wish to be spared the uncomfortable realities of being a prisoner of war in Aemogen.” Thayne’s voice was as cold as his Marion eyes were blue.

  “I, quite foolishly, wanted to know if I could find out any information regarding the return of the queen to Aemogen,” Basaal replied. “Don’t believe me, by any means, but it is the truth of the matter,” Basaal said flatly.

  “Eleanor?” Thayne pressed. “Returned?”

  “That is what I came here to find out. The original plan we had arranged—for her to sail down the eastern coast—fell apart. And, by chance or by the grace of the Illuminating God, I came to know that she had been taken into a rather dangerous part of the empire. So, I sent one of my best soldiers to find her.”

  “Taken?” Thayne’s jaw tightened.

  “By slavers,” Basaal admitted, sounding much more calm about that prospect than he had ever felt.

  Thayne leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his eyes relentlessly boring into Basaal’s own. “So,” he said, “you are telling me that you, Prince Basaal, came up here in search of news of Eleanor’s fate with what—less than a month’s time before battle? Thirteen thousand men are waiting to decimate Aemogen, and you chose to go on a self-indulgent field trip to see if your enemies’ monarch was safe in her bed?”

  Basaal looked at Thayne and did not answer. He was already cursing his own stupidity, so Thayne’s mocking disbelief wasn’t necessary.

  “Eat,” Thayne ordered as he began to pick slowly at his own food. Basaal lifted his bound wrists expectantly. After chewing on a piece of bread and swallowing, Thayne nodded towards the prince.

  “Your arms still work, I presume.”

  Grumbling in Imirillian, Basaal began the uncomfortable process of looking like a complete fool.

  “Have you heard back from your soldier, the one you sent to find Eleanor?” Thayne asked while playing with a piece of dried fruit.

  “No,” Basaal answered sharply, giving up on his food and dropping it back down on the table. He settled back against his chair with a flourish to indicate he was not interested in looking like a captive monkey while eating.

  “You say you had planned a route to the East?” Thayne pressed.

  “I promised Aedon I would see her escape,” Basaal replied. “Zarbadast was the first opportunity with any likelihood that she—or I, for that matter—would stay alive. She left the city with my most trustworthy friend and confidant well over two months ago now. I can’t—” he faltered. The memory of Eleanor interrupted Basaal’s thoughts, and he looked down towards the floor, remembering the moment when he had opened his hands and watched her fall into the darkness below.

  “On old Ainsley, Telford was right.” Thayne’s voice sounded uncomfortable—thoughtful.

  “About what?” Basaal asked.

  “You’re still in love with her.”

  With a string of Imirillian curses coming from his mouth, Basaal kicked the table in front of him, sending his plate rattling across the wood. Several candles toppled, leaving only one flame standing. He looked away from Thayne, angry. Invaded.

  Thayne’s frown deepened. “Dear me.”

  Time passed, and neither man touched his food. Thayne appeared to be thinking through a bevy of internal details with no intention of speaking to Basaal. Basaal, in turn, should have been planning his escape but found nothing but blankness. The only thought rattling around his mind was how impertinent Thayne’s assumptions were. The bastard.

  After some time, Thayne picked up the toppled candles, relit them, and set them upright back on the table.

  “I’m not really a man of war, you know,” Thayne said. “So I make this possible breach of secrecy for humanity’s sake and because I know for certain that we are not going to let you go.”

  Basaal continued to stare anywhere else but at Thayne.

  “Yesterday morning we received notice that Eleanor has indeed returned to Aemogen.”

  A bolt, a crack—something sharp split Basaal’s chest, and he closed his eyes, leaning forward, covering his face as best he could.

  “By now,” Thayne continued, “she should have reached Ainsley Rise. I am leaving, come morning, for the castle.”

  These words fell on the table between them, for Basaal scarcely heard anything Thayne had said. Basaal took several deep breaths, muttering the words of a ritual prayer to steady himself. Eleanor. Eleanor was safe. Calmness began to smooth out every sharp edge of anxiety he had carried with him. His pro
mise was fulfilled, and there was only one thing now for Basaal to do: figure his own destiny, be it escape or death. His honor had now answered for everything else. A smile born of relief crossed his face, and he sat up straight.

  “What do you plan to do with me?”

  “Take you as prisoner to Ainsley.”

  “To my death?”

  “I won’t deny it’s a possibility,” Thayne replied.

  Basaal shrugged. “Then, let’s get to it.”

  Chapter Nine

  A few days passed before Eleanor relieved Edythe of the morning audience.

  “I don’t know why I should feel nervous,” she confided to her sister the first morning she’d decided to return. Edythe gave Eleanor a stabilizing smile.

  “There will not be many matters to address,” Edythe assured her. “Preparations for war have taken the space of so many things, and requesting an audience is made up of the everyday. I shouldn’t wonder if you’ve only one or two people to see at all.”

  But word must have spilled down the Ainsley stair and into the city that Eleanor was to attend morning audience, for the throne room was full of people, waiting for a glimpse of their returned queen. Eleanor wore a bright blue gown that Miya had taken in at the waist according to the fashions of her gowns from Calafort. Eleanor hoped the results would give the illusion that she’d not lost so much weight. That it did not do.

  “Don’t take too much time with alterations, Miya.” Edythe had said, shaking her head. “We hope to be letting those darts out within the month.”

  There were very few requests—and nothing extraordinary—until the acting captain of the guard came forward. He was a young man recommended by Crispin, whom Eleanor was deciding upon.

  “There has been a serious altercation in the streets of Ainsley,” he reported. “Both men have been brought to the castle for trial.”

  “Bring them in,” Eleanor waved, certain that altercations happened all the time in Zarbadast, and Shaamil never bothered. The thought was amusing.