by Beth Brower
The first man Eleanor did not recognize; the second, she knew all too well.
“Thistle Black,” Eleanor said as she set her elbows on her armrests and leaned slightly forward. “You have been fighting in the streets of Ainsley? Who is this poor man to have aroused such ire?”
Aedon, who sat along the western wall with the rest of the council, almost laughed at Thistle Black’s ready humility.
“I’ve no desire to be a friend of this rogue,” Thistle Black explained. “And I do not even know his name.”
“Sir?” Eleanor said. “Yes, you with the swollen eye. What is your name?”
“Rols, Your Majesty,” the man replied as he bowed farther his already bent head.
“And, what caused you to catch the anger of Thistle Black?” she inquired. The man, Rols, kept staring hard at the floor, his cheeks burning. “Thistle Black, what happened?” Eleanor insisted, her face dropping its humor.
“This man was speaking lies in the streets, Your Majesty,” Thistle Black said. “And I wanted to show my, ah, disagreement with the tales.”
“And, what were these lies?” Eleanor asked, her voice turned steely.
“That—” Thistle Black faltered. He looked towards Aedon for a moment then stubbornly back at the queen. “I’d rather not say.”
Eleanor wrapped her fingers around the edge of her armrests. “Speak.”
“This man claimed that your virtue had been taken by the men of Zarbadast,” Thistle Black explained. “That they’d…well, I would rather not say. But, I felt it my right—” he paused for emphasis, “my duty, to defend the honor of your name, Majesty.”
Whispers filled the throne room like the sound of a rushing river.
Eleanor’s expression flickered, and she turned an iron gaze on Rols. The man was visibly sweating and trembling, the redness on his pock-marked cheekbones turning a deeper shade of scarlet. Eleanor glanced at Aedon, who looked like he would kill the man if he’d been given the chance.
“Look at me, Roles,” Eleanor ordered. The man had closed his eyes, but, to his credit, he moved his chin up and opened his eyes obediently at his queen. She did not give him a smile. “Have you been to Zarbadast, Rols?”
“No, Your Majesty.”
“Then, you make a bold claim as to knowing what happened while I was there.”
“Yes. I—please,” he said, his lip beginning to tremble. “I’d heard—stories, just stories, about the city and didn’t know.”
“No, you did not know,” Eleanor said, tilting her head to the side. “And would anything that may or may not have happened cause you to remove your fidelity?”
Rols pressed his lips together, his eyes wide and glass-like. When he spoke, his voice was shaky with emotion, “No, My Queen.”
“Well then. I would rather not be discussed in the streets,” she said, her voice cold. “But, you have not been brought in for slander, rather for fighting.” Eleanor moved her eyes to Thistle Black’s face. “Neither, I repeat, neither of you should have engaged in public brawling. I assume it must have been disruptive or caused property damage for the guard to feel it necessary that I should see you.”
“Only the post of a butcher’s shop sustained injury,” Thistle Black admitted gruffly.
“Well, I’ll require a fine to cover the costs of repairs,” she said. “And then, I propose that the guard let you cool your heads in my dungeon for a day. Old Ainsley! If grown men cannot control themselves in Aemogen, I’ve little hope for our chances against the Imirillians.” Eleanor pressed her lips together then looked again towards Rols. “Have you been preparing with the men of Ainsley for battle?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“And, is there any other reason why I should question your loyalty to myself and to the crown I wear?”
“No, My Queen,” he said, and he fell to his knees. “I am as loyal as the day,” he said emphatically.
“Remember that,” she said, “the next time you are tempted to drag my name through the filth of the street, speaking what is not known, least of all understood.” Eleanor could not bear the weight of the room so she turned towards Thistle Black with a lighter smile, lifting her intonations towards humor. “Thistle Black, next time you feel the need to defend my honor, use that edged tongue of yours rather than those clenched fists. The butchers of Ainsley must not be so put upon. Dismissed.”
A soft wave of laughter followed as Eleanor told the guards to take both Rols and Thistle Black to the dungeons. She was glad of the lightened mood and tried to push past the event as soon as she could. What a spectacle.
The final petition was simple, but Eleanor did not give the small farmer much hope. “Were it not a time of war, I could make an immediate decision,” she explained. “As we are preparing ourselves to go against the Imirillians, I must first speak with your fen lord, and then we will see if your needs can be met in a timely manner without sacrificing the higher needs of the nation.”
As she finished, the doors to the throne room burst open.
“We have him!” a soldier announced. “We caught him at the pass!”
“Who?” Eleanor demanded of the breathless soldier.
“The Imirillian prince!”
Eleanor shot up from her throne just as a company of several men entered. Crispin, hand clenched around Basaal’s arm, brought him roughly before Eleanor. Basaal was bound and gagged. And, when saw her face, his legs almost gave way, he faltered. Eleanor recognized his stunned expression as relief. Impatiently, Crispin forced Basaal onto his knees before her, and the prince stared ahead blankly, making eye contact with no one.
“My Queen,” Crispin said, though he was out of breath. “The men have captured the Imirillian prince near Colun Tir. He claims he was alone and that he is no spy. Aside from his weaponry, this was all he carried on his person.” Crispin opened his hand to reveal a small bracelet of gold with three pendants attached to it. Then he threw it to the ground before Basaal.
“Away with you,” Eleanor said forcefully, keeping her voice as clear as she was able. “Away with all of you. Crispin, you and your men clear the room and wait outside. Only Hastian needs remain—and Aedon.”
Crispin moved to speak, to question her orders, but he checked himself and bowed, clearing the throne room of curious observers before closing the large doors with a sound that echoed inside Eleanor.
Her heart jumped short of its beat as she again looked down at Basaal. Tussled, worn, bruised on his face, his eyes cloaked in a state of no emotion as he knelt before her. He wore his presence well despite all this, that indefinable pride, which filled the space around him, reminding her of the might of Zarbadast. Reminding her what it was like to be with him.
Tracing his bent figure with her eyes, Eleanor stepped down from the dais. She knelt before him, her skirts a puddle around her, her knees touching his through the fabric. Eleanor reached her hand hesitantly towards him before she pulled it back. Basaal moved his head up and looked into her face.
With the steadiness of his long breaths as the only sound, Eleanor lifted her hands and moved them around his neck to the knot that held his gag in place, untying it with practiced fingers. Basaal watched her, his eyes wandering from her eyes to her chin. When the gag gave way, her lips quivered as her wrists pressed lightly against the curves of his neck and shoulders.
The line of Basaal’s mouth was emphasized by the way his eyebrows were knit together. He appeared resigned, separate, studying her face from some strange distance. As she drew her hands away, briefly touching the skin beneath his jaw, Basaal blinked, and the corners of his mouth turned down.
Pushing the fabric of her full skirt aside, Eleanor found the pendants—so casually tossed to the floor—strung together by the delicate bracelet Basaal had gifted her. She reached down, her fingertips feeling the worn stonefloor before surrounding the ruby and gold tokens. Eleanor lifted them, turning her hand over to look at them, the rising bird, the ruby she’d worn for the wedding ceremony, and the
wanderer’s mark. They felt heavy in her palm, almost like she was holding a living thing, beating and alive. She felt that it was his heart—or her own.
Her hand was shaking, and she could smell a trace of cinnamon coming from his dirty cloak. Bringing her eyelids down, Eleanor wrapped her fingers around the jewelry in her palm and then lifted her eyes back to his.
“Did they hurt you?” Eleanor asked as she lifted her free hand to the edge of his face, her fingers touching his skin, nervously, like a butterfly.
Basaal hissed in a breath at her touch, flinching, but he did not answer her. Eleanor paled, pulling her hand back, remembering Basaal knelt before her as a prisoner of war, and she was Queen of Aemogen. And she must get away from him, before something in her split apart forever.
She stood, hastily pulling herself to her feet, pressing the pendants into the palm of her hand and shaking her head back and forth. “See that he is settled in the dungeon,” she said for either Hastian or Aedon to hear. “In the king’s cell.”
With the feeling of a fabric ripping between them, Eleanor stepped away, turned, and walked past the dais, disappearing through the door behind the tapestries.
***
Eleanor went straight to her chambers. Edythe, who was sitting with her embroidery, laid it aside when she saw her sister’s face. “Eleanor?” she asked. “What’s happened?”
“He was right!” Eleanor choked in near rage. “Oh, Edythe, why didn’t I listen?” Her anger came strong and clear. Her teeth clenched, she had tears in her eyes, and her chest burned.
“Who was right?”
“I have been broken, Edythe. I have no strength left.” Eleanor fell to the ground, kneeling, a sob catching in her throat. “They have captured Basaal. They brought him before me. I looked at his face, knowing full well the destruction he has brought down on all of us. Yet, knowing that his fate is in my hands rips at me!” Eleanor said fiercely and clenched her hand into a fist, hitting it against her chest. “And all I wanted was to reach out to him. I tried, but I can’t! Don’t you see?”
Edythe came to Eleanor’s side, kneeling and pulling her sister against her shoulder.
“I cannot love him,” Eleanor sobbed, “because he has been sent to destroy my people. And yet—” Eleanor pressed her face against Edythe’s shoulder. “He could hardly stand my presence, so what does it matter? I cannot speak to him of anything—not of Zarbadast or the Shera Shee or the fate of Dantib. I can’t abide the pain, and I feel so far away from here, from all of it—the stone, the gardens, the people—I am hopelessly far away. My journey has changed me, and I feel so empty, and I can’t—”
Eleanor clung to her sister, the feelings of sorrow wrenched from her core as she sobbed. Edythe held her, whispering softly, stroking Eleanor’s hair, and crying soundlessly alongside her. It was a long time before Eleanor’s sobs turned into slow, unsteady whimpers.
“You are not empty,” Edythe said through a clenched jaw, and she spoke from her own determination. “You are grieving. Yes, you have changed. There is no way around our own life experiences. We must live through them, and we do.” Edythe pulled away and met Eleanor’s eyes. “You have not been depleted. You have been added upon. Gift this to your people. Draw strength from who you have always been, and draw wisdom from what you have now seen.”
The abysmal weight of it all pulled at the corners of Eleanor’s eyes, but she nodded, pressing her forehead against Edythe’s shoulder, wondering if she could trust herself to her sister’s words.
“I am sorry, Eleanor, that you and the prince are on opposite sides of this war. I am sorry that it is confusing and uncertain and cruel. It’s no small thing to love someone despite how they have hurt you. It is no small sacrifice you offer.”
They sat in silence for a long time. Eleanor’s head hurt, her neck was stiff; her heart carried the weight of a thousand scrolls.
“What am I to do with him?” Eleanor finally asked.
“You must sleep awhile first,” Edythe answered.
“Yes.” Eleanor sniffed, but she did not move. She stayed there, kneeling against Edythe, trying desperately not to think of the prisoner in her dungeon.
***
The afternoon sun seemed determined in its brilliance, flooding Eleanor’s receiving chamber with light. She sat at her desk and waited. Then the door opened. It was Aedon.
Eleanor did not look at his face. Rather, she glanced towards the near-blinding light pouring in through the window. Aedon settled in the chair opposite hers, his place during countless discussions before.
“You’ve been crying,” he stated simply, not needing an explanation. Eleanor wiped her eyes with the back of her fingers and sniffed before looking at him.
“How familiar are you, Aedon, with Aemogen law?”
“Very.” The inflection in his voice made Eleanor think he thought it an odd question. “As you well know.”
“Five centuries ago, there was a small set of amendments that have little practical use in our time,” she explained. “And, consequently, they have been largely unknown. One amendment is in regard to alien citizens on Aemogen soil.”
Aedon waited.
“A foreigner living on Aemogen soil, claims no protection from the law until they have been here one year.” Eleanor exhaled. “But, if they have spent half a year in the country, then they become subject to the discipline of the law as would any citizen.”
She placed her elbow on the arm of the chair and leaned her head against the parted fingers of her hand. “The prince spent one hundred and eighty-three days in Aemogen: three days beyond a half year.”
Aedon’s eyes narrowed, and he frowned.
“He will not be tried under the law of war,” Eleanor continued, “for espionage from an opposing country, which, in Aemogen—unique from other countries—means lifelong imprisonment. It’s a tricky bit of law, but, when you come to the end of it, there it is. Rather, he will come before me to be tried as any citizen…for treason.”
She pulled at the inside of her cheeks to steady herself before continuing. “And, because of the nature of such treason—and its direct relation to the crown during a time of war—he will be charged for high treason, punishable by death if he is found guilty. And we both know,” she faltered, “that he will be found guilty.”
“And so you must put the one that you love to death,” Aedon stated, his voice soft.
Eleanor looked at him sharply, all pretense draining from her face. She had not told Aedon; she had not told anyone before confessing to Edythe.
“I can’t deny what I saw between you this morning,” Aedon said, seeming to feel that he should offer an explanation. “Had you not cleared the throne room all of Ainsley would know it as well.”
Eleanor sat back in her chair and moved her middle finger against the wood grains of her desk. Does Basaal know it, she almost asked. She knew it didn’t matter if he did. He would go to his death either way. And her worry of what he must think of her could not overshadow the decisions her own conscience must make. And yet, the integrity she’d cultivated as a monarch insisted he did not deserve to die. To say nothing of her heart.
Aedon visibly swallowed. “You are the queen,” he said. “And, this is a time of war. You have the power to overturn any of this.” He waved his hand. “Declare what you will, and be ready to lead your army in three week’s time.”
Eleanor shook her head, bringing her fist down on the table so gently there was no sound. “You know that I reign over this people with the integral understanding that I will not put myself above the law. This is essential to the power and might of the Aemogen sovereign. Otherwise, I would become no better than Shaamil—a law unto myself.” Eleanor paused before continuing, “The people must see this go through the proper channels, for it is their right, and I will not desecrate that sacred trust.”
“What would you have me do?”
Her answer came quickly. “When it is asked if anyone will stand and speak on behalf of the prince,
I will do so. That means I forfeit my right to run the trial,” she said. “Because he will be tried as a citizen, you, as head councillor, are eligible for this position. Because it is a time of war, Crispin becomes eligible as well. This means one of you will be given the last vote and the other will be given voice to run the trial.”
Aedon nodded. He knew all of this.
“I appoint you to be that voice,” Eleanor said.
“Because you hope I might sway the council to spare his life?”
“No,” Eleanor sniffed, her emotion refusing to lie dormant. “Because you will hear the arguments for and against Basaal, and I trust that your judgment will be less clouded than Crispin’s. Basaal will receive a more just trail.”
“That leaves Crispin with the deciding vote.”
“Yes, if it comes to that,” Eleanor acknowledged.
“And you trust him with that place?”
“I trust you to argue against me in a just manner,” she stated, “which automatically leaves Crispin with the last vote. That cannot be changed.”
Aedon’s face wrinkled with worry. “I will need time to prepare: to study precedents.”
“There is no time,” Eleanor said, shaking her head apologetically. “I know that you would like there to be, but we cannot have this trial disturb our preparations for the attack. We have one chance to beat Imirillia, and our preparations there are paramount. The trial will be in the morning. His fate must be decided,” she added, “and I must live with it.”
“I had suspected you would offer him as ransom to bargain for peace,” Aedon admitted. “I’ve considered his capture a godsend.”
Eleanor said and shook her head. “The emperor will suspect Basaal has conspired with me. I am sure his suspicions do not fall far from that possibility now. And even if he didn’t suspect anything his pride would not let him settle through a hostage negotiation, not even to save the life of his favorite son.”
Eleanor sniffed again and shook her head. “It would kindle his anger, and he would not rest until he saw all of us destroyed. A ransom would do us no favors and only extend the time it takes to learn our own fate in this game, perhaps even throwing our plans to the wind. No, the trial will go forward. And I must balance my integrity between my duty to the people and my duty to my own conscience.”