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

by Beth Brower

  Aedon looked out the window as the sun began to disappear behind the distant mountains. “Fine then,” he said. “I will lead the trial.”

  “There is one more thing,” she added. The lines around Eleanor’s eyes moved from pain. “Something that I—I cannot do, so I ask it of you.”

  ***

  Basaal had stretched himself across a stone bench that was built into the far wall of his cell. It was a quiet space, and he assumed it had been put to little use over the last several years. He had tried to pay attention to where it sat below the castle, but he gave up and focused on keeping thoughts of Eleanor from his mind. His preferred thought was to berate himself again and again for his capture.

  In frustration, Basaal closed his eyes and leaned his head against the stone. What a weight he had carried with him since he had sent Eleanor and Dantib into the desert; so terrified, yet so determined to be honorable. And Dantib had followed willingly, never mentioning the countless worries he must have had. Dantib. The guards had told Basaal nothing when he had asked about Dantib, nor had they given any information regarding Zanntal. Yet, he knew they had arrived in Aemogen.

  But her face. He could not think of it without feeling sick. She was gaunt, and tired, her braided hair discolored as the dye faded. Despite all this, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever known. The scar that wrapped around her neck and across her chin, leaving a fine, white line in her bottom lip, had obviously come from a whip. And guessing who might have caused it was an excruciating exercise.

  A sound in the hallway brought Basaal’s mind back to his cell, and he sat up. Had Eleanor sent for him? Was she preparing a reunion between him and the stable master? Would she see him hang? It would be foolish to ransom him to the emperor; Shaamil would not take the bargain.

  Adrenaline shot through Basaal’s body as the sound of keys rattled in the door. Then it was pushed open. Aedon walked in. Basaal sat up and leaned forward, waiting for Aedon to speak.

  “So,” Aedon said. “They found you at Colun Tir?” Aedon stood with his arms crossed over his chest.

  “Yes.”

  “Were you sent there? Whom else have you told of that place?”

  “No one,” Basaal said, leaning back against the wall, impatient with the questions. “Thayne has heard the confession already,” he added. “I had gone down to see the work at the pass and let my foolish curiosity take me to the tower, following the delusionary hope that I might somehow overhear if Eleanor had returned home in safety.”

  “That is twice that you have been caught there. I’ve never known you to be careless.”

  Basaal attempted a cocky grin. He wasn’t sure it came off well.

  Aedon sighed as if he would rather Basaal not been caught at all. “I’ve come to say you will come to trial in the morning for high treason against the crown. There will be no attempt at ransom.”

  “No. It would do no good. My father is not the kind of man to keep his word in such things.” Basaal felt a strange relief. So it was to be death, then.

  “Eleanor has told me some of what transpired,” Aedon said then paused, trying to speak graciously. “I thank you for keeping your word.”

  Basaal did not reply.

  “She returned over a week ago,” Aedon said, looking as if he did not know why he had supplied that information. “She is tired.”

  Reaching his hand down, Basaal picked at his boot, uncomfortable with being watched by Aedon as he processed this information. “The last I knew,” Basaal said, “was that she and Dantib had been taken by slavers. I sent a member of my personal guard to search them out.”

  “Zanntal? He found her,” Aedon said. “Eleanor wanted you to know he is staying at High Field fen with a sick slave girl they’d rescued and will travel up to Ainsley when able.”

  “And Dantib?” Basaal asked, finally looking up. “Is there any mercy to grant me time with him before my trial?”

  Aedon looked about him uncomfortably, and then back at Basaal. “He died in the desert. The queen asked me to come tell you this.”

  Basaal’s mouth opened. He tried to get up, to stand, to act, but his legs shook. He fell back onto the stone bench, taking a breath as if he had come up for air from a deep ocean. His lungs were collapsing inside of themselves, his breathing becoming quick and panicked. Air could not be had and the walls were closing in around him. He tried to stand again, but he could not lift himself. Everything had fallen; the world had fallen—and it had taken Basaal with it.

  When Basaal was finally able to look up, Aedon was gone, and Basaal was left alone with his own misery.

  ***

  Each time Basaal woke, it was still night. And death. Death was before him. Basaal did not think on the trial, but rather on the hanging that would follow. And it would be the end, a blissful end to the struggles of his life. He would find rest and bring the fate he had placed on Dantib onto himself. His death would help him accomplish what the Illuminating God had asked of him. The relief of the thought caused a twisted smile in the darkness. He could live through to the end. If only the end would come tomorrow.

  Chapter Ten

  “Not black,” Edythe said. “You would look a widow.”

  “I’m suited for it.” Eleanor threw these words at her sister.

  When Edythe did not answer, Eleanor turned again to the pile of gowns on her bed.

  “What then?” her sister tried again, patient with Eleanor’s turmoil that had nothing to do with gowns. “You’ve refused to wear anything I have put before you.

  Eleanor had banished Miya and everyone else that she might prepare herself. The trial was set to begin shortly, and she felt awful. “What color does one wear to sentence someone to die, I wonder,” Eleanor said fiercly.

  “You do not know that the council will decide on death,” Edythe said. “You will argue, and they may find mercy.” Edythe held up a deep red gown of simple velvet. “What about this?”

  “I can’t wear red,” Eleanor said without explaining its tie to Basaal. “Or blue or green or any other color that makes one feel happy about anything.” She slammed the door of her wardrobe, and it bounced back open against the force. “How can I do what I must?” Eleanor brought her hands up to her face in desperation, as Edythe patiently combed through Eleanor’s dresses.

  “This then,” Edythe said as she held up Eleanor’s simple gray dress, accented in places with silver beads that looked like stars. “It’s elegant, but no one could say anything cheerful about it.”

  Eleanor kicked the thick black gown away from her feet and turned to look at Edythe. “I’ll look half dead and half queen.” She snatched the gown from her sister’s fingers. “An authentic statement,” she added bitterly. “I must not look too young when I send him to die.”

  Edythe forced Eleanor to slide the gown over her chemise.

  “Are you sure you do not wish to wear white? For courage?” Edythe asked, attempting to persuade Eleanor one last time.

  “White is for battle,” Eleanor spat.

  “Exactly.”

  “The gray will suit.”

  Edythe moved behind Eleanor to secure the back and then hesitated. “I—” Edythe faltered.

  “What is it?”

  “I had forgotten the back of this dress drops down as it does.” Edythe sounded apologetic.

  Eleanor thought for a moment of her tortured skin, laced and branded with knots and twists of discolored scaring. She moved her tongue along the thin line in her lip.

  “Such it is,” Eleanor said at length, her voice full of desperate venom. “It will give them something besides my virtue to discuss in the streets of Ainsley.” The gray gown was secured with a lace down the lower back, so Edythe was able to pull it tight enough to fit Eleanor’s diminished frame.

  “And now,” Edythe murmured, “we must secure the crown.”

  “The crown?” Eleanor inquired, moving her fingers absentmindedly along the scars on the back of her neck.

  “This is a trial d
uring wartime,” Edythe said matter-of-factly. “You, therefore, are required to wear the battle crown into the throne room even if this goes forward as a civilian trial. I asked Hayden about the protocol.”

  “I suppose I ought not to have worried whether I looked too young,” Eleanor said as she stared at herself in the mirror. “Between this gown, that crown, and my face, I will look one hundred years old.” The corners of Eleanor’s mouth creased down. “No matter. I feel it.”

  ***

  When Eleanor entered the throne room, all were present. Her councillors sat stiffly, Aedon especially, and the many who had come to observe were deathly quiet. Crispin sat in his place on the council while six of his guards stood in the center of the room, Basaal between them. His wrists were bound before him. His clothing was, as ever, black as night. Eleanor looked anywhere but into his eyes. She sat for a full minute to gather herself before rising again. All in attendance followed, and then the trial began.

  “Under Aemogen law,” Eleanor began, “this man, Prince Basaal of the Imirillian Empire, is to be tried for high treason against the crown of Aemogen.” Eleanor’s voice was clear. “As some of you might be unfamiliar with the proceedings of a treason court, I will explain. Fifteen sit in judgment to hear any arguments presented for or against the accused. In most cases, the ruling monarch governs the trial and casts the final vote in the proceedings. I have abdicated this position for this trial in favor of Aedon, the chief councillor of all fens. He will direct the trial. And, as we are in a time of war, Crispin, the war leader of Aemogen, will cast the fifteenth vote.” Eleanor felt the next words on her tongue before she spoke them. “I will argue on behalf of Prince Basaal.”

  Murmurs followed as Eleanor stepped down the steps of the dais and waved a hand, dismissing the guards that stood around Basaal, and taking her place a half step in front of him. A general sound of shock filled the room as the audience saw, very clearly, Eleanor’s exposed back. She thought she also heard Basaal’s intake of breath but could not be certain. She could feel Basaal’s eyes, though, wandering over the angry, thatched scars.

  His chains clanked against themselves, and a shiver ran down Eleanor’s spine. Aedon rose. The fifteen men—both fen councillors and members of her war council—sat in a line behind him on the west side of the throne room.

  “Prince Basaal of the Imirillian Empire,” Aedon began, “because of the amount of time spent in Aemogen you are to be tried for high treason, equal a citizen of this country. If you are found guilty, you will be sentenced to death and will be hanged.”

  “The council,” Aedon stated, “does have the power, by majority vote, to amend the sentence if sufficient cause is found. Let us then begin.”

  Aedon’s bearing was stiff, but he controlled his expression so that it simply appeared as if he were speaking to the fens on fair methods of trade. “Prince Basaal lead an army with the express purposes of either subjugating or deposing our queen and of taking the resources of our country—our own sovereign country—for the Imirillian Empire. Is this so?” Aedon asked as he looked at Eleanor.

  “It is so,” she replied.

  “Using information gathered during his time here, he prepared his army for its invasion of Aemogen, which would have been successful had not our queen stalled his army as our miners worked to set the powder to bring down the pass,” Aedon explained. “When both efforts on our part were successful, the prince took Queen Eleanor captive. Is this not so?”

  “The events of your narration, Councillor, are true. But, saying that Prince Basaal used the information he had gathered here for the purposes of his invasion is false,” Eleanor argued. “The prince became aware of our plan to bring down the mountain. And, as his purpose in coming to Aemogen was to urge us toward surrender—to avoid bloodshed—he did not share news of what we intended to do with his officers or his soldiers,” she explained. “Had Prince Basaal not kept the information about our plans to himself, he could have marched his army up the pass days earlier, and Aemogen would have ceased to remain an independent nation.”

  “Do you suggest that he had divided motives that should be taken into consideration?” Aedon offered Eleanor fairly.

  “The prince himself told me, on more than one occasion that because of his mother, Edith of Marion, who was a friend to the Aemogen crown, it was not his will that Aemogen should be taken into the Imirillian Empire.”

  “Then, why lead the conquest?” Aedon asked directly.

  “For fear that if he refused this appointment, Emperor Shaamil would have then appointed another leader, who would not be as kind,” she replied. “Prince Basaal was the architect of the agreement to give the sixth months Aemogen was granted to decide and prepare.” Eleanor looked evenly at the eyes of each councillor. “And, anyone who observed his efforts on the battle run saw that he gave the best military training Aemogen could have received.”

  Sean whispered something to Briant, who nodded. But Eleanor could not read their faces, and her mouth felt dry as she waited for Aedon’s next question.

  “All this may be true,” Aedon said. “But, his good motives pale in comparison to the deaths of Common Field,” Aedon stated. “One hundred and eighty-four men, women, and children were slaughtered by his men, technically under his orders. Was this not so?”

  The room filled with whispers.

  “Yes. It is so,” she responded despite her reluctance. First and foremost, Eleanor was the Queen of Aemogen. She would not have her people see her otherwise.

  “Then,” Aedon said, “even if the accusation of treason were to fall—an unlikely scenario because one’s motive cannot outweigh one’s action—he has the blood of one hundred and eighty-four Aemogen citizens on his hands. And that is not even mentioning the guards slaughtered when the Imirillian warning came or the over two hundred men who have died defending the pass against his army. Can anything be said to that?” Aedon demanded.

  “The prince told me once that the men who had committed the crimes on the innocents of Common Field had acted without the blessing and orders of their superiors. He did not authorize or condone the attacks.”

  “He told you once?” Aedon asked.

  “Yes,” Eleanor confirmed. “As his purpose was to avoid all bloodshed, this event distressed him greatly.”

  “And, there is no one else to corroborate his story?” Aedon inquired. “In all your time in the company of the prince and his men, you never once confirmed with anyone else that this was indeed true?”

  Eleanor’s initial reaction was to snap back at Aedon that she was not the one on trial. But the truth of the matter caused her to pause. She had not corroborated the tale with Annan or anyone else. But, Basaal had not proven himself to be so untrustworthy that she could not take his own word.

  “No one has corroborated his story,” Eleanor admitted. “But his own character is a testament to its truth. I would not make any judgment that would harm Aemogen or its people, but I also would not bear the responsibility of defending a man if I did not deem him worthy to receive life over death.” As she said this, she caught Crispin’s eye. He sat with his face hard, his eyes traveling from Eleanor to Basaal and back again.

  On they went, Aedon asking questions, discussing Basaal’s deceptions, and questioning his continued loyalty to the Imirillian Empire, and Eleanor answering as best she could on Basaal’s behalf.

  “And, after you were taken captive,” Aedon pressed, “did the prince keep his word to see you safely back to Aemogen?”

  “Yes,” Eleanor replied. “Beyond the requirements of any man’s honor, he arranged for me to be led from Zarbadast back to Aemogen, an act that would cost his life if Emperor Shaamil ever knew of it. A man called Dantib, Prince Basaal’s close friend and mentor, died in the process of helping me home to Aemogen.”

  “Despite whatever nobility that caused him to be so sympathetic,” Aedon said as he held out his hands, “the irrevocable damage has been done; the Imirillian Empire now wants Aemogen more than e
ver before and the lives lost at Common Field must to be accounted for. This man is not on trial for his character. He is on trial for the act of high treason and, consequently, for the deaths caused by it.”

  “I think it is clearly established that, by the understanding we have of Aemogen law, he is guilty of the charges brought against him,” Eleanor admitted. There was a burst of conversation in the courtroom, and Aedon held up his hand to quiet the observers. Eleanor continued.

  “I am asking for pardon, because of all I have laid before this council. The law would be blind if nothing else could be taken into consideration in deciding his fate.”

  Aedon folded his arms. “And, if we pardon this man,” he said, “if we let him live in whatever form—be it as prisoner, servant, or freeman—what does that tell other warring countries?”

  “That we are soft and do not take our rules of war seriously,” Crispin said, speaking for the first time. Everyone turned to look at him. “He should be hanged tomorrow.”

  “Would you sacrifice true justice only to gain the point of proving your own strength?” Eleanor questioned in return.

  Crispin would have answered, but Aedon spoke again. “Your reasoning, Your Majesty, though strong, may not be enough to overturn the verdict of the council,” he admitted. “Unless you have something else,” he added, “we will now take our vote.”

  It was not enough. Eleanor’s heart stopped and then beat doubly quick. Looking at the faces of the councillors, she knew her arguments were not enough to save him. She hazarded a glance back at Basaal’s face. He stood silent—graceful as always—calmly staring into the space before him. And, though he might never forgive her, Eleanor knew there was one thing left that she could say that might possibly sway the council to grant him his life.