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

by Beth Brower

  She nodded, and then looked toward Basaal.

  “I’ll go and see if I can find Edythe,” Basaal said. “I’ve a hunch of where she will be.” He did not waste time by searching the dance floor. He knew she would not be there. Taking the Ainsley stairs two at a time, he hurried up past the gates and into the quiet of the rise.

  With the music floating around the dark, Basaal walked to the records hall, knocked on the door, and pushed in. He had been right. There she was, sitting at a table with a small candle lit, shuffling through an assortment of papers and a pile of damaged scrolls.

  “You left without dancing.” His words echoed in the quiet hall.

  Edythe smiled and looked back towards her work as Basaal approached her table, sitting in the chair across from her. Misery was evident on Edythe’s usually composed face, and she held herself together by focusing on the task before her. The papers rustled and slid as she sorted, her only answer to his statement.

  Basaal waited just outside the circle of candlelight, trying to read whatever he could from her movements.

  “Just too many memories?” Basaal ventured.

  “No,” Edythe said, her eyebrows knit in a way that reminded Basaal of Eleanor. “The memories are there, for certain, but—”

  “But?”

  She set the paper in her hand on the table with the others and rested her hands on them as if they might fly away. “It’s been almost a year now.”

  Basaal shifted in the chair, leaning against one arm, his fingers spread against his cheek.

  “The fear of forgetting his likeness,” Edythe said, “of reshaping his voice in my head, is so frightening.”

  “So, you worry about betraying his memory?”

  “Yes,” Edythe said emphatically.

  Basaal opened his mouth and then grimaced before speaking. “Has Eleanor ever told you of how my brother died?”

  Edythe shook her head.

  So Basaal spoke of Emaad—comprehensively and without holding back a single breeze of memory—so that the story was formed into an intricate design of what Emaad had meant to Basaal and of how, in the end, Emaad had died for him.

  “I took his body away from that place,” Basaal explained, “to a quiet copse of trees that had escaped our army’s brutality. There was a stream there, a freshet of sorts, where I washed and prepared his body. I cried myself through all the appropriate rites, trying to remember what was to be set in place for the journey of the dead. And, when I’d filled the grave, I—” Basaal shrugged and leaned against the back of the chair, folding both his arms across his chest. “I felt as if I were buried along with him.”

  Shaking her head repeatedly, Edythe lifted her hand to her mouth.

  “After not much time, numbness sets in, and you are thankful, for it separates you from the pain,” Basaal said philosophically. “But, it also comes with fear, the fear of knowing that someday you will wake up and all your senses will no longer be stripped bare, the dullness of survival stolen, and you will feel the pain of it.”

  The wick of the candle had burned down, tilting sideways into the clear wax that had begun to spill onto the table.

  “What takes away the pain?” Edythe whispered.

  Basaal frowned. “It doesn’t leave. But it changes, coming in waves rather than in relentless sharp misery. I suppose—” He caught an ironic laugh in his throat, and ended up just breathing out fast, his chest rising and falling. “I suppose it began to ease at some point during the battle run. It was Eleanor…it was all of you.”

  “Do you forget to think of him?” she asked.

  Basaal lifted his fingers to his lower lip. “Never supposing that this would happen, some days pass where I realize I have given him no thought. I used to think this should trouble me, make me feel guilty for it. But I don’t do it carelessly, Edythe, and Emaad would be pleased. No one is meant to love only one soul in their life. We have friends and lovers and whatever family the Illuminating God has given. That being said, any loss is irrevocable. No one steps into the place they once were. But the act of loving someone would not be so beautiful if their place could ever be filled. We need loss, I suppose. Perhaps there is something even holy in it.”

  Sputtering in the wax, the flame of the candle disappeared, and the smell of smoke rose between them. The music from the square reminded Basaal of what he had come for in the first place. “Come down to the square and dance.”

  ***

  Eleanor was standing with Aedon in the crowd when the musician’s announced the final song.

  “Have you seen Basaal?” she asked him, looking around the crowded square.

  “There,” Aedon said, pointing towards the base of the steps, where Basaal and Edythe had just finished a dance. As Eleanor looked over, she caught Basaal’s eye. He waved and took his leave of Edythe, weaving through the spent crowd to join Eleanor.

  “I’ll go be with Edythe,” Aedon said as Basaal arrived. Then Basaal stepped into his place beside Eleanor, and the music began.

  Slower than a reel, they turned in close proximity, facing one another, taking simple steps. Eleanor found herself craving the pressure of his hand on her waist, the way her hand brushed against his chest when the dance called for her to circle around him, the feeling of his breath against her cheek when he spoke. By the time the song ended, Eleanor and Basaal had stopped dancing altogether, standing close, her arms around his neck, his chin resting against her temple.

  “I still don’t understand how to leave for battle,” she said.

  “You try not to think about it,” he answered.

  Eleanor’s party, her councillors and friends, all found each other before ascending the stairs to Ainsley Rise. Speaking occasionally, but mainly content in their own thoughts of the days ahead. Then they separated, embracing wishing each other a good night, and remembering they would gather again come morning.

  Eleanor and Basaal returned to her rooms, sitting before the fire on one of the sofas, wandering in their own thoughts.

  “We never danced to my music,” Basaal said as he leaned his head back and then smiled.

  “That would have been a disaster.” Eleanor was sitting beside him, her feet tucked up beneath her. “They wouldn’t have forgiven you.”

  Basaal laugh was slow. Eleanor shifted herself, the music wearing thin in her mind, the anxiety of battle rising.

  “Relax.” Basaal moved his hand to her knee.

  “Is that possible?” Eleanor looked at Basaal’s face. The skin there was healing from the burns, and his eye was just slightly clouded.

  “No, it isn’t possible,” he answered.

  “Then, how are you appearing so at ease?” she asked. Eleanor moved her fingers along the wood grain of the back of the sofa, stopping shy of touching Basaal.

  He took a long breath. “Years of practice, I suppose.”

  He sat up and shifted to face her. “If I am to be honest, I must admit to have never known the terror I’m covering now. The thought of raising my sword to my own men is—I cannot even think it or I—I will watch for my colors in battle and keep as far away as I can. It’s—” He did not finish, but Eleanor saw he was now shaking.

  She moved her hand towards his face, brushing his cheek with the side of her thumb. Basaal caught her hand, kissing her wrist, holding it gently as he closed his eyes. Eleanor leaned forward, touching her lips to his, trying to ease the pain from his face. Trying to draw out the pain in her own lungs. Basaal responded, moving his hand away from her wrist, placing the heel of his palm on her neck and pulling Eleanor closer as he kissed her in return. Her heart dropped at his touch, and she was losing herself to it when a pounding came at the door of Eleanor’s antechamber. There was a noise and then Hastian’s voice, stating something firmly.

  Basaal pulled away from Eleanor, breathing heavily, resting his forehead on hers stubbornly. “Please tell me no one is wanting to see you just now,” he said quietly.

  An impatient knock on the door of the audience chambe
r was Basaal’s answer. Reluctantly, Eleanor moved away from him, her fingers hesitant to lose his touch. She smoothed her dress and let one of her feet drop to the floor. Closing his eyes, Basaal sank lower into the couch, reaching for her wrist and pressing it to his lips, before he muttered something softly that Eleanor could not hear.

  “Come in,” she called.

  Crispin burst through the door.

  “Eleanor, is Basaal—” Crispin began, but then he saw them sitting together, registering the expression on Eleanor’s face. He flushed. “Oh.”

  “What is it, Crispin?” Eleanor brought her fingers to her temple and closed her eyes.

  “Nothing really, I just, well—” Crispin cleared his throat, and Basaal sat up, turning to look back at Crispin. “There are some men back at the encampment who are frightened, determined to leave. I thought that the prince might help persuade them, give them courage before the march tomorrow. But, I should have thought—”

  “No,” Basaal said as he stood, his hands loosely resting on his hips. “I’ll be happy to come with you. Just a moment.”

  Eleanor covered an affectionate smile; he did not sound happy. Basaal disappeared into the corner bedroom, where—as Eleanor had discovered a few days previous—he had been keeping his personal effects after taking up residence on her sofa. He returned with his cloak and his weaponry in place.

  Eleanor watched him cross the room, thinking about the first time she had seen him in his princely garb, suited up for war. He had frightened her on that morning in his tent, the day after the pass had come down.

  “Will you be gone long?” she asked.

  Basaal nodded reluctantly. “I should have thought to go out sooner,” he said. “The men need their officers and their leaders with them. And, whether I like it or not, that is what I have become. I imagine I will probably sleep at the encampment.”

  “Oh,” Eleanor said, not meaning to sound so disappointed.

  “I am sorry.” He bent down and kissed Eleanor, moving his thumb across the line on her chin. “If I can, I will come to you in the morning, before we are to march out.”

  Crispin had disappeared back into the antechamber, or Eleanor would have wished him a good night. As it was, Basaal kissed her again, slowly, his hands holding her face tilted towards his. He stopped just as the kisses became more urgent—too soon for Eleanor—and simply said her name once before leaving, closing the door behind him.

  Eleanor could hardly bear him being away.

  When morning came, Eleanor reached her hand behind her on the bed to find nothing there. She turned and looked at the bedspread, rumpled by her own restless sleeping and nothing else. The emptiness felt prophetic somehow, and Eleanor shook the thought from her mind as she rose to prepare herself for battle.

  Edythe came to help her. It was a quiet morning, and Edythe put Eleanor’s hair up ritualistically, placing the battle crown on her head. Eleanor wore a new white gown and the sword she had worn for ornament during the battle run.

  “The holes in your ears have grown over,” Edythe observed. “Clumsy of me not to have noticed.”

  “It is alright,” Eleanor said. “When I return.”

  “Yes,” Edythe said. “When you return.”

  Crispin came for Eleanor when it was time to leave. He escorted her down to the courtyard, where Thrift stood, saddled and waiting. Basaal was there, organizing something with a few of the men, and Eleanor saw that a change had taken place: he was a soldier, his mind was in battle, and he was not the same person she had been with the evening before.

  Eleanor mounted, as did Hastian, who rode directly behind her. Zanntal was with them as well, having informed Eleanor he would aid in her defense at Colun Tir. With Thrift’s reins in her hands, Eleanor turned and looked back up at the towers of Ainsley Castle just as the signal was called.

  The company rode out onto the western downs, the banners of Aemogen trailing in the air.

  ***

  The rumble of the long columns, the pound and jolt of his horse—Basaal was struck by the familiarity of the scene as the small army pressed through Aemogen towards the Maragaide valley. He conferred with Crispin and Aedon, took time to be among the men, and stepped naturally into his role as leader, soldier, and prince.

  Eleanor was there, of course, but Basaal found it difficult to be much in her company. There was always another question for him to answer, another soldier to encourage, or more logistics to review. Then word came from the guards at Colun Tir that Thistle Black and his team had successfully brought all of the powder devices through the mountain. There was no word yet from Thayne and his men, who were going about their work of readying the charges and weapons they would leave along the western lines of the Imirillian camp. But, he had to assume all was well with the Marion company.

  On the first night, Basaal came to Eleanor’s tent late, and she had already fallen asleep. He watched her a moment before grabbing a bedroll and taking it outside, where he lay awake, thinking of the coming days and tracing the patterns in the stars.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Darkness stretched from the mountains down through the valley, unyielding and thick. The only relief being the fires of the Imirillian camp across the plain. Eleanor’s officers moved through Colun Tir and its outbuildings with no guide but their own hands on the walls; no light would be lit at the tower.

  Basaal took comfort in this blind cover—this absence of vision that gave no confirmation of fear in the eyes of the soldiers, no periphery of the usual images that came—by course—in the preparation for battle: the horses dressed and impatient; weapons, sharpened, polished; a young soldier, frozen, emitting youthful terror, looking wide-eyed and fragile. Freedom from these sights delivered a freedom of mind. Basaal wondered why all armies did not prepare for battle in the safety of darkness, where no vulnerability could be revealed.

  Basaal, Crispin, Aedon, and Sean knew what they were to do, and they went about it, exchanging whispers and orders frankly: no halting, no hesitation. Basaal had lost track of Eleanor. She was somewhere inside the tower, receiving updates from Crispin. So Basaal continued with his work. He had been asked to accompany an advanced group of miners, who were ordered to set explosives along the northern lines of the Imirillian encampment as well as the eastern lines among the horses. Aedon’s experiences, having grown up in a mining fen, had caused him to be a leader in the group, and he had requested Basaal join the mission, making use of the prince’s knowledge of the camp. Basaal had agreed and followed his acceptance by exerting great efforts to forget that he had.

  A messenger from Thistle Black came up the mountain, asking the men to be ready. They would be called down soon. After checking Refigh and leaving his horse in the careful hands of Zanntal, Basaal entered Colun Tir. He must find Eleanor and tell her good-bye.

  He found Eleanor in a storeroom, deeply embedded in the center of the fortress, the only place sanctioned to light a candle. She sat at a crate, used for a table, where a map was spread. Her battle crown glittering, the white of her gown looking iridescent, otherworldly. She was surrounded by whatever officers were not busy on Crispin’s errands. The young war leader stood beside her, speaking in a hurried voice with Sean. Basaal almost wished he had not come in, for he could now see their faces. The ease of anonymous preparation gave way to tension, and the discomfort of battle settled in his chest.

  Eleanor called to him without looking away from the map. “I was wondering if I would see you.”

  “I’ve kept him busy in the yard,” Crispin said, breaking away from Sean, reaching his hand out to Basaal, who stepped forward and took it with a firm grasp. “The prince has suffered his dignity to help me execute field command.” They clapped each other’s shoulders, and then Basaal stepped towards Eleanor.

  “Thistle’s crew leaves down the mountain soon,” he said, and as he was speaking, Eleanor looked up into his eyes. “Is there—” He bit off the words, unsure of what to say. The light had revealed no fear or trepida
tion in her expression, rather a solidity, a grace; she was fixed and resolute, her entire being empowered with a nobility he had never seen in the emperor of Zarbadast. Basaal grappled with his memories, wondering how he could have missed this in her before. He took a step back.

  Basaal knew what Eleanor was to him, and he wished fiercely he didn’t.

  ***

  It had taken Basaal walking into the room, to offset the ordered focus of her mind.

  Eleanor had tied her sternest hopes to the work her soldiers would do that night. The focus she gave the attack was only increasing as each hour was spent. All was tightly organized in her mind, and she was fully present in her role. But Basaal’s entry had caused the air to swell and ripple, his presence bold enough to challenge her single mindedness.

  “There you are,” Eleanor said, her attention still given to the work before her, despite the call of his presence. “I was wondering if I would see you.”

  Crispin said something, from over her shoulder, but Eleanor lost to his words to her focus on the map. It was Basaal’s voice who called her back.

  He said something and Eleanor looked up into his eyes. “Is there—” He stopped speaking, and Eleanor watched as a strange expression marked his face. It was the first time since they had left Ainsley that she felt Basaal’s tight role of soldier was pulled aside, and all of him—every humor and question and feeling—was showing through. He was incomparable, and mortal. They all were so very mortal. Eleanor felt herself falter, and she stood quickly to cover the thought.

  “Might I speak with you privately, before you leave?”

  Basaal halted then swallowed—a soldier once more—and Eleanor almost wished she had not spoken.

  “Certainly.” His stillness gripped her. “I had come with the hope that we would.”

  Eleanor stepped around the crate and walked into a side room. The dimness grabbed at whatever light it could, leaving them to see one another only just.