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

by Beth Brower

  After Edythe left, Eleanor sat alone, staring into the large mirror at her miserable reflection, only a few candles illuminating the darkened room with their own impatient light. The deceptions of Zarbadast felt heavier as they repeated themselves in Aemogen.

  The prince stepped out of the shadows. Eleanor started but did not turn. Instead, she rearranged a curl of hair that had fallen out of place.

  “I see that they were able to oblige your usual taste in clothing,” she remarked. This comment was meant to be an effort toward conversation. But it had sounded, even to her own ears, like an accusation.

  Basaal stood stiff, his hands behind his back, wearing black. His tunic was trimmed and decorated in gold, a pattern reminiscent to that of Eleanor’s, and on his upper sleeve, in gold, was the emblem of Eleanor’s house. His eyes followed hers, and his jaw tightened. “A reminder of who I now serve,” he said.

  Eleanor’s fingers instinctively moved across her arm, left bare by the sleeve of the wedding gown. His eyes followed and he shifted, discomfited. Eleanor choked back the words of apology that had been waiting in her mouth all afternoon and stood, turning towards him.

  “My people have lost a measure of faith in me.”

  “Perhaps they feel you have betrayed them.”

  Eleanor took a world-weary breath, and said, more to the space between them than to Basaal, “Is it not faith we speak of? What of that?”

  Basaal stared, but said nothing.

  Eleanor lifted her chin. “I expect you to help repair this damage. Tonight you will act, as I have so often seen you do, the agreeable prince of Imirillia. I cannot wait a day to win them back, and you are part of that.”

  To Eleanor’s pained awareness, Basaal transformed. Raising his eyebrows, his mouth shifted into a smile, both charming and disconcerting. He offered his arm. “May I?”

  She stepped towards him, the ethereal fabrics of her gown rippling behind her steps as if it were from the wardrobe of a ghost. “Thank you.”

  They left her apartments and walked down the torch-lit hall, Hastian moving silently behind them. Edythe was waiting for them in a blue and gold dress similar to what Eleanor wore. She was beautiful.

  “Prince.” Edythe stepped forward and offered her hand to Basaal. “I have not yet had the opportunity of greeting you as brother. May I do so now?”

  “Certainly.” He was warm and sincere as he took Edythe’s hand. “You must believe me when I say I am honored to be greeted as such by you and would beg you allow me to prove myself a brother to you despite—” He took a breath. “Despite it all.”

  “Do prove yourself a brother, Prince Basaal, as I’ve always felt you should be,” Edythe said, and she kissed him on the cheek. After he smiled at her, Edythe hazarded a glance at Eleanor before stepping behind them.

  As they approached the hall, they were greeted with music, and noise, more decoration than Eleanor could remember seeing in many years. As they entered, people stood, and then the royal pair walked the line of fen lords and councillors, greeting them on their way towards the high table. As if to prove that he could care for their beloved queen, Basaal showed Eleanor respect, dignity, and affection. He smiled, paid compliments as different heads of state were reacquainted with him, balancing humility and assurance, all the while maintaining an aloof separation. All his training in Zarbadast was coming to good use.

  Eleanor said very little. She was miserable, and the weight of his touch burned.

  The evening progressed well, for all its intents and purposes. Basaal performed skillfully, playing the role of charming penitent, devoted to the queen and to the cause of Aemogen freedom. Despite his aura of separateness, he praised the courage and determination of the people and expressed what Eleanor knew to be sincere feelings in regard to the independence of smaller countries.

  After the remnants of the meal had been carried away and a satisfied spirit had seemed to ease the worried minds of those in attendance, Edythe bravely stood to toast Eleanor and Basaal.

  “My Lords and Ladies,” she began. “I am pleased to celebrate the wedding of my dear sister, our queen, to this honorable prince.” Eleanor felt sick as Basaal’s hand, which rested near hers on the table, pulled away. “And as my first gift to the happy couple,” Edythe continued generously, “when peace has been established again, I will order the royal suite—where my parents were so happy—to be remodeled for the bride and her groom.”

  There were polite cheers, and Eleanor forced a smile for Edythe’s sake.

  “Until then,” Edythe continued, “the happy couple will simply have to make do with Eleanor’s current set of rooms. I do hope the prince enjoys living with manuscripts, books, and scrolls.” There was friendly laughter at Eleanor’s expense. She wondered how many of them knew he’d spent his night back down in the dungeon. After a few more toasts, the guests turned back to the special dishes prepared for dessert.

  “I’ve a wedding gift for you,” Basaal said to Eleanor in a quiet voice as he leaned back in his chair, his head tilted towards hers, swirling his drink around in his almost empty cup. His voice held neither affection nor contempt but a blandness that stung Eleanor all the more. “I was not going to lead my armies into Aemogen.”

  “What?” she asked on the heel of his confession.

  “I was told very—” he paused, “quite clearly that I was not to lead my army into Aemogen. The Illuminating God forbade the act.”

  “But—” Eleanor said, leaning towards him. “What would you have done? What of your father’s men? And what if he had he stripped you of your army?”

  “I hadn’t figured that out yet,” Basaal said, shrugging lightly. He turned his eyes on her, his gaze wandering from the flowers in her hair down to the scar on her chin. “But it’s too late for those questions. Now,” he said and cleared his throat. “Do you have a gift for me? I believe, by my tally, that you’ve been the ungenerous partner in both marriages now.”

  Scowling at his impertinent tone and choosing to ignore his subtle humor, Eleanor repeated the words from so many days past, “Considering the duplicitous nature of our marriage, I think it best we forgo the bride’s gift.”

  The prince looked at her blankly for a moment before throwing his head back and laughing so loud the entire room paused to watch. He finished his drink off with a cheeky grin and set it firmly on the table.

  “Well played, my love. Well played.”

  ***

  At the end of the wedding celebration, Thayne had a few moments with Eleanor alone. “Prince Basaal does not seem to be holding himself together well at all,” he said.

  “Really?” Eleanor replied, her eyes watching Basaal as he sat, speaking soberly with Edythe. “You surprise me. Everyone else seems to be taking his theatrics in stride.”

  “It’s his eyes,” Thayne measured. “Haunted as any pair I’ve ever seen.”

  “He has lost someone very dear to him, and I’ve done nothing to assuage the pain of that death.” Eleanor raised an eyebrow. “I’ve raped him of country, culture, family, and home, in the single act of forcing him into matrimony with me. I’m the very devil in his eyes.”

  Thayne grimaced at her harsh language and rested his hand on hers in a fatherly way. “Your actions on his behalf have been nothing less than noble and self-sacrificing. It is an ugly thing, now, to pretend they weren’t.” He squeezed her hand. “But, you’ve a decision to make, my dearest.”

  “What is that?”

  “The game is set, and now you must choose between your pride and your love for him. Only a fool could not see you carry them both.”

  Eleanor looked down and bit her lip, wondering when her own confusion came into fair play. But she knew it wasn’t the difficulties of her own journey keeping her separate from him. “Even if I could set aside the pride, and fight the weary misery inside of me, I wouldn’t know what to do with him, Thayne.” Eleanor admitted, with no hardness in her voice. “Even in the pressures of Zarbadast, he never appeared as fragmented
as he does now.”

  Thayne watched his young cousin a long moment before speaking again to Eleanor. “From what I understand, he has balanced stresses and contradictions for most of his life. Is it any wonder he might have come to a breaking point?”

  “Then, what do I do?” Eleanor said, watching Basaal, who was now smiling ironically, his eyes far away.

  “You let him break. You let him crumble.”

  Eleanor didn’t understand. “But why?”

  “Because you are the only person in his life with whom he feels safe enough to break. And that, my dear, means a great deal.”

  Eleanor remained silent the rest of the evening.

  After the ordeal was finished, Basaal casually insisted on returning to the dungeon.

  “Then you will use the entrance through my personal chambers,” Eleanor said. “No need to make us look ridiculous before the entire country.”

  “A secret stairway to the dungeon from your own chambers?” Basaal replied, quirking an eyebrow. “The intrigue. Have you many secret rendezvous with your prisoners? Oh,” Basaal said as he looked up, clapping his hands together in a way that reminded Eleanor of Kiarash. “I forgot. I’m your first one.”

  “There is a blanket in that room there,” Eleanor said as she pointed towards the corner bedroom adjacent to her own, ignoring his laced humor. “Tomorrow we can see you more properly settled.”

  “Much obliged,” Basaal responded dryly.

  After he had retrieved the blanket, Eleanor met him with a key. “For the door at the bottom,” she said. “Leave it unlocked.” Then she pulled at a design in the wall paneling, revealing the opening to the staircase.

  He nodded as he passed, ducking his head, into the narrow entrance.

  “Do you need a light?” Eleanor called down.

  “I can manage without any,” his said, his words echoing up the stairs.

  Later, with Thayne’s words crowding into her mind, sleep would not come. Eleanor spent hours trying to think of what she might say to Basaal. But there were no words, only the knowledge of the acute pain they had both suffered. She rose, pulling a white shawl over her nightdress, and opened the door that would lead her down, down the endless stairs, into the black dungeon.

  Eleanor lit no candle for herself as she placed her hand against the stone and took the first step. Down and down she went, her concern giving her the courage to move forward. She reached the bottom and pushed open the door into the endless hallways of seed rooms and cells. It was loud. Had Basaal heard? Did it wake him?

  She approached the cell where she’d instructed he be placed, pushed her hands against its door, now unlocked, and it gave way.

  The cell was dark as pitch. Eleanor stretched her hand out before her, moving slowly. She could hear him breathing in the blackness, fast and quick, as a child would breathe on the edge of a fever. It was as if he were suffocating despite the chill of the air. Her eyes settled into the darkness, and she could see him before her on the ground. Basaal was lying on his back. Eleanor knelt down beside him, the stones unyielding against her knees.

  In vulnerable trepidation, she reached her hand towards him, brushing his hair back and resting her hand on his brow. It was warm. His breathing stopped, and the turn of his head was ever so slight. Eleanor’s heart pounded mercilessly, rising and falling, but she kept her hand in place, stroking his hair back, moving her thumb across his skin, willing her fingers to draw the anxiety out from his mind.

  His breathing began to quiet as if his lungs understood help had come. Seeing how his left hand was clutching at his nightshirt, Eleanor kept her right hand on his forehead while lifting her other hand to his chest, coaxing his grip away, easing the tension in his fingers. Finally, he let go, and Eleanor placed her hand in his, holding it steady. And, although his face was turned towards hers, Eleanor could not tell whether his eyes were open.

  It seemed a long time she sat with his hand in hers. Finally, Basaal’s breathing became deep and even, and he was still. Leaning down, Eleanor kissed his forehead, lingering with her cheek against his brow, smelling the edge of his cinnamon scent, before sliding her hand away from his and disappearing from the cold cell.

  Chapter Twelve

  When Eleanor stepped out of the western gate into the camp, the men cried out in unison, and Eleanor shivered at the sound: thousands of voices, her soldiers’ voices. She was followed by a loose entourage of councillors, fen lords, and, as always, Hastian. The southern troops had arrived. As the men stood at attention, a ripple of voices brought about Crispin’s swift appearance.

  “Your Majesty!” he said, welcoming Eleanor with a smile.

  “Good morning, Crispin,” she greeted him back with surprisingly more cheer than she believed she felt. She motioned him to her side and they walked the camp, the trail of councillors and fen lords walking a distance behind them.

  “I am glad to see you are feeling better,” she said when they had walked far enough ahead of her entourage to allow private conversation. “I understand that the last few days have been a trial for you.”

  He sighed. “I trusted him so completely, you know. I’d feel a fool, especially with my new responsibilities, if I did so again.”

  Eleanor looked up at Crispin’s determined expression, studying his handsome face. There were more lines now about his eyes, and he seemed older.

  “Trust him again,” she said with a force that surprised even herself. “Of that, he is worthy. If he is willing, use him in any capacity you need.”

  Crispin hunched his shoulders, catching his hands behind his back. He frowned at the ground as they walked on. “I will think on it. Now,” he brightened, “let me take you away to the smithies and show you our progress on Black’s devilish devices. The powder is not kept in there, so no worries as to its safety.”

  “I thought you said they were your idea?”

  “They were,” Crispin said. “Black has just improved upon their maliciousness. I could never have thought of filling the spheres with nails and scraps of metal.”

  Eleanor winced. “Don’t tell me any more. I’ve no desire to know the workings of such a thing.”

  ***

  With the arrival of the southern troops, camp teemed with over three thousand men. The days were full of noise and training, every smithy in the country sending a continual stream of weapons to Ainsley. Crispin was all energy as he accounted for every detail of the planned ambush in their morning meetings.

  Eleanor’s council met twice a day, nailing down the logistics. She also rode out among the troops as often as she could, when she was not bent over numbers, scanning the reports of their increasing stockpiles with her calculated eyes. Reports still came from the pass, listing their casualties and the slow progress of the Imirillians.

  Basaal did little to make himself available during the day. From what Eleanor knew, he spent much time in his dungeon retreat, which—with the addition of a bed, a table, a chair, and several books and scrolls—had become quite comfortable.

  He would always appear in her chambers to eat breakfast in a polite silence, would take his midday meal below, and would arrive to escort Eleanor to the evening meal, where he sat at the opposite end of the long table—as was appropriate for Eleanor’s spouse—and was a polite dinner companion to those who sat near him. Eleanor would occasionally flick her eyes down the table to watch, sometimes seeing that Basaal had fallen into a deep conversation with Aedon.

  She and Basaal spoke very little with each other. Eleanor was frightened for him, who could appear so well to the others and so on the edge of an abyss to Eleanor. How, exactly, did you let someone break and know anything about what to do with the pieces? So she said little.

  Yet, each night, at some unearthly hour when she could not sleep, Eleanor would slip down the stairs to see if his breath was calm and steady. Sometimes he seemed to be waiting as Eleanor pulled the chair to his bedside and reached her hand out for his. She did not stay long, but Eleanor never left before
she knew he had fallen asleep again.

  ***

  Basaal sat stiff among the members of the war council. Aedon had come earlier with a message: Crispin requested the prince to be present at the meeting, “if it so pleased him.”

  Basaal went.

  He had become close comrades with these men during the battle run. None of them, except Aedon, seemed to know what to say whenever they saw Basaal, so they didn’t say anything. He pulled at his high collar and looked up towards the ceiling.

  A moment later, Eleanor entered the room. She sat in between Basaal and Crispin, looking only towards her war leader, and began the meeting by giving Crispin the floor.

  “Some of you may be wondering why I have asked the prince away from his extremely demanding schedule,” the war leader began, and someone snickered. Eleanor scorched the man with one glare, and everyone in the room sat up straighter.

  “Proceed, Crispin,” she said.

  “Yes, well, I thought it would be wise—considering Prince Basaal’s military expertise—to lay our plans before him and to let him detect any obvious flaws to be considered. That is, if Prince Basaal is amenable to the idea?” There was no warmth in Crispin’s words, and he clearly had asked Basaal because of their great need, nothing more.

  Basaal cocked an eyebrow and nodded, faltering only a quick instant before leaning forward in his chair. “By all means,” he said, sounding tired.

  Snapping his fingers, Crispin motioned for a young soldier to bring a map to the table. Crispin laid it out, asking for weights, and then pointed to the Maragaide valley.

  “In two weeks’ time, almost our entire force of three thousand men will march to this point,” Crispin said. “It will take three days. We will also maintain a force of three hundred men to remain fighting at the pass.”

  Basaal’s thoughts went to his own men, who were also fighting at the pass; his own men, who had waited for him to come back. “And, the purpose for moving your forces into the Maragaide valley is what?” Basaal asked to distract himself.